


The Dying of the Light

by ausmac



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 19:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7904767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ausmac/pseuds/ausmac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What might have happened if Palpatine had cloned a certain Jedi Master to be his new apprentice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story quite some time ago, and it remains one of my favorites of my own stories. Its funny how some characters move you, and Sarane very much did that for me.

After a day spent in the worthy pursuit of the destruction of the Jedi and the overthrow of the Republic, Darth Sideous felt some need of relaxation and pleasure.  For a man whose work was his pleasure, this normally meant organizing some minor revolt or the assassination of some troublesome official.  That day he felt more in need of a simpler pleasure, so he returned to those secret rooms in the centre of his tower on Coruscant to watch his apprentice train. 

It had been an eventful ten years since the loss of his first apprentice on Naboo.  During that time he had become the Supreme Chancellor and was well on his way towards creating a formidable Space Navy and he’d corrupted many of the more influential Senators to his cause.  Very soon the Senate would call for him to assume supreme power in order to quell the many “disturbances” breaking out across the Galaxy – disturbances that he himself had engineered.  It was delightfully simple.  Only the Jedi, now, stood in the way. 

The large training room was brightly lit and warm and some low, throbbing music came from speaker set in the walls.  In the centre of the black wooden floor, in a pool of gold light, his apprentice moved through a series of physically demanding routines.  Sideous sat in an armchair provided for him, crossed one leg over the other and leant back to watch. 

As soon as he sensed his Master’s presence, Darth Morte increased the level of difficulty of his moves, driving himself through the pain barrier as tired muscles and joints flexed and twisted.  Sideous felt the pain as pleasure along their training link, allowed his response to ripple back to the young man with just a hint of satisfaction. 

His skill was exceptional and his physical appearance a delight.  Tall and slender, his skin glowed with perspiration, his long golden brown hair whipped around his face as he spun and leapt.  The pleasure for Sideous was increased by the fact that the young man wore no clothing, only a slim black band across his hips to protect his genitals.  He had the physical appearance of a mature man in his mid twenties though, in fact, he had been physically alive for only eight years.  

He had inherited the raw talent within the Force of his progenitor and Sideous had honed that talent to its ultimate through many torturous hours of training.  Although his body had matured at a rapidly enhanced rate in the cloning vat, his emotional state on retrieval had been that of a child.  It had been a challenge to raise him – the first year had been spent learning to walk, to talk to become human and grow into his adult body.  A life time of training and education had been packed into the next five years.  Day after day, hour after hour, pushing and forcing the young man to his limits and beyond, twisting the immature mind to Darkness, driving out the Light.  All Morte knew, all he understood of life was what his Master had shown him.  He was as natural and comfortable within the Dark Side as a star is to the void it inhabits. 

Yet even so, even with his skill at manipulation and control, Sideous knew there was still something of the original left inside his creation.  He could destroy that small spark of Light but in doing so he would deprive himself of much that attracted him to his apprentice.  How much more pleasant to touch him and teach him when he sensed that tiny germ of Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn lying swallowed by the dark at the bottom of Darth Morte’s soul. 

Finished at last, on the point of collapse, Morte spun across the floor and fell at his feet.  Breathing hard, his face pink and damp from his efforts, he raised intense blue eyes to his Master. 

“I think I have it now, that movement that troubled me.” 

Sideous reached out one hand to stroke the damp hair.  “And if I said you did not?” 

Morte turned to rub his face into his Master’s palm.  “Then I would do it again, if it pleased you.” 

And he would, until he passed out from exhaustion.  He didn’t see it as punishment or sadism or wrong – it simply was how it was.  Sideous had never known that kind of understanding, that level of unquestioned devotion.  That, also, he had from the original.  The Sith had always been plagued by their lust for power that had eventually pitted pupil against Master, destroying them all.  To bind Jinn’s cellular child to him by bonds more typically forged in the Light was either an act of supreme stupidity or amazing audacity.  Only time would tell him which. 

Morte crouched on his haunches, his arms wrapped around his Master’s legs, his head resting on the older man’s lap.  What they had wasn’t love but it was all the Dark allowed them and he knew with some small surprise as he continued to stroke the thick hair, that he would have liked it to be more. 

As his apprentice continued to sit in contented silence, Sideous took a small picture wallet from his pocket and opened it.  

“Do you remember this man, what I told you of him?” 

Morte studied the image, nodded slowly.  “Yes.  Obi-Wan Kenobi.  The last student of my cellular provider.  He would be…”  Morte considered his memories, “perhaps thirty years old now, training his first Padawan, Anakin Skywalker.” 

Sideous twisted a strand of hair around his fingers.  “Yes.  What do you think of him?” 

He shrugged.  “He seems capable.  Intelligent.  A typical Jedi.” 

“Nothing else?” 

Morte looked up at him, his blue eyes calm.  “No, Master.  Nothing.” 

“Good.  Do you think you could defeat him?” 

Morte settled down onto his haunches in a more relaxed crouch.  “In combat?  Honestly, Master, I don’t know.  He defeated your last apprentice, so he is very good, very fast.” 

“He defeated Maul,” Sideous said, “because I believe he drew on the Dark Side.  He has successfully submerged that brief flirtation but I have reason to believe it has tainted him.  It might just be possible to turn him.” 

“For what purpose?” 

Sideous stood, straightened his robes and looked down at his apprentice.  “For vengeance, my boy.  Because he took something that was mine, because I am patient and I have you now, to enact that vengeance for me.  You will be a most suitable form of retribution.” 

He watched Morte’s acceptance with pleasure.  There was no anger though it would have been natural.  It would be perfect.  His own nature found it far more satisfying to destroy from within.  To turn one of the Jedi’s most beloved knights to the Dark would give him great satisfaction. 

“How should I do it?”  Morte asked, climbing gracefully to his feet. 

Sideous looked up into the elegant features, and smiled.  “Oh, in the most obvious and delightful way, my boy.  Destruction from within.  You will seduce him, take him and betray him.  If that were not enough to destroy one such as him, I really don’t know what would.” 

Smiling still, he led his apprentice away to plan the destruction of a Jedi.

 

 

Obi-Wan hated Naboo.  It was a beautiful world, green and lush, its people generally well-behaved, its climate comfortable.  It was also where his Master had died.  From where he stood on the balcony of the Theed Palace he could just see the small building where Qui-Gon’s body had been placed, where the fire had been lit to consume the person he’d loved most in the world.  Yes, he didn’t much care for Naboo.  He smelled the smoke at the back of his throat whenever he was there, the aftertaste of burnt flesh, of irretrievable loss. 

They came more often to Naboo than he liked, called there by duty and the love of his Padawan for Naboo’s Queen.  The strange friendship that had begun on Tatooine between the small slave boy and the young ruler had grown over the years to a great love and they were soon to be married.  It was unusual for Jedi to marry but then Anakin was an unusual Jedi.  He’d told the Council himself,  braved them in their high tower and told them that it was either accept this marriage or lose him, that nothing mattered more than his love for Amidala. 

Even Obi-Wan.  His Master had known that Anakin would always put Obi-Wan second to Amidala.  It was just the way it was.  They had worked well together over the years, were friends of a sort but there was always that slight gap that Obi-Wan suspected he had made in the beginning.  He’d tried to bridge it over the years but if there was one thing Anakin possessed, it was memory.  He never forgot that his Master had taken him on only to fulfil a promise to a dead man, had questioned his place in the Jedi from the beginning.  Obi-Wan suspected it lay at the bottom of his mind still in some hidden place Anakin never let anyone into.  The same place where he kept the memory of his dead mother. 

After so many years he’d begun to hope that the pain of loss was finally decreasing, that he could think about Qui-Gon without the inevitable punch to his gut that followed.  The sharp anguish had lessened but the return to Naboo had released the barriers again.  He was back but his greatest love was not.  For some reason, even in the midst of his Padawan’s happiness, he could feel no cheer.  There was always a ghost at the party, the ghost of things unsaid and undone. 

He looked down off the balcony at the bright crowd filling the city square.  It was the monthly craft and art market day and the city filled with visitors from miles around as the artisans and craftspeople of the city displayed their wares. Bored with being an observer to romance, Obi-Wan left a message with the Chamberlain of his whereabouts and headed down to look at the market.  

Amongst the bright and noisy crowd he moved like a quiet shade, stopping now and then to view a display of beautifully glazed pottery or some of the famous Naboo dyed fabrics.  He was standing watching a group of tumblers perform to a happy audience when he caught sight of a passing face in the crowd and froze. 

Impossible.  It was simply the angle of the sun or a slight resemblance – but the face turned briefly and – it – was – his heart stopped, thumped in his chest - 

The crowd moved, the face disappeared and Obi-Wan’s world jerked back on its axis.  The resemblance had been extraordinary and as much as he knew he was being foolish, he had to see that face again, to make sure his eyes hadn’t been playing tricks. 

Dodging through the crowd at a rapid walk, he headed across to where he’d seen the man and stood searching about, trying to track him.  Caught sight of someone he thought might be the one turning into an alley off the square and almost jogged through the mass of people to catch up. 

The alley was quiet, full of cool shadows and as he entered it heard voices and a quiet cry.  There was a scuffling sound and he ran.  Turned a corner to see a figure on the ground, one man standing over him, the other rifling his pockets. 

It was obvious what was happening – a robbery.  The two men turned at his appearance, the standing man jumped back and ran, the crouched figure pulled out a knife and Obi-Wan leapt forward, feet kicking out, connecting with a hand and the knife flew away.  The robber tumbled backwards, rolled and leapt to his feet, bolting after his accomplice.  Obi-Wan hesitated, heard a voice behind him and stopped. 

“Please – don’t chase them.  You might be hurt…” 

Unforgettable voice.  Unmistakeable.  He turned, skin alternately flushing hot and cold and looked down into the face of a dead man. 

It was him, and it wasn’t.  Younger, hair shoulder length and sandy blonde, the nose straight, a light moustache over the same wide mouth and when he stood he was just as tall, just as elegantly slender.  It wasn’t him but how, in all the Force, Obi-Wan asked himself, could any two men be so much alike? 

He reached out an instinctive hand to help the young man up and felt an odd surge in the Force, a gossamer touch of prescience.  He looked up into blue eyes that smiled at him with hesitant courtesy. 

“Thank you, your timing was excellent.  I don’t carry much in the way of valuable, I don’t quite know what they hoped to get from me.”  He stood with his hand still in Obi-Wan’s grasp, looked down at it and across at the Jedi.  “Ah, my name is Sarane.  You are. . .?” 

“Oh.”  He let the hand go, feeling the tingle through his skin as the finger slid away.  “Obi-Wan – Obi-Wan Kenobi. “  He smiled, trying to hid his confusion.  “I thought . . . You looked like someone I knew.  I’m just glad I was here to help.  Are you alright?” 

Sarane put his hand to the back of his head, gave a small wince.  “A bit of a bump, my pride bruised, but otherwise fine.  Please, will you let me make you a cup of Cha, at least, by way of thanks?  Besides, “ he finished, the shy smile returning, “I’ve never met a Jedi before.  I’d love to talk to you about the Force.” 

Logic said, go away, it isn’t him, you’re deluding yourself.  His eyes were filled by the presence of this young man who fitted his every idea of perfection and he couldn’t, for the life of him, say no.  “Thank you, that would be nice.  I was just out visiting the fair so I don’t have any particular plans at the moment..”  He was babbling, he knew, but his normal Jedi poise seemed to have deserted him. 

Sarane’s rooms were in a small tower in a sidestreet about half a mile from the square and they threaded their way through sidestreets and quiet courtyards, then up a flight of stairs and into a comfortable set of rooms that carried the faint odour of paint and cleaners.  The rooms were bright with light and colour, potted plants hung from chains attached to the ceiling and a great ceiling-wide window let in sun to a parlour whose walls were lined with paintings.  The paintings were mainly portraits and almost all were nudes. 

Obi-Wan studied them with interest as Sarane put the water on for tea.  “These are very good, Yours?” 

The young man popped his head out through the kitchen door.  “Yes, I’m an artist.  I hope to go to the Central Art Academy on Coruscant next year – if my entry is accepted.  Do you like them?” 

Obi-Wan nodded, standing in front of one painting of a young woman crouched down to study a small animal before her on the ground, her face hidden by a fall of long dark brown hair.  “You have a nice touch.  I am no art critic but the paintings seem quite alive.” 

“That is the idea.  Anyone can take a picture, keep a holoslide, but art should be interpretational, it needs to say something to each person who sees it.”  He came out with two cups and a small plate of savoury crisps.  “Otherwise its just a picture.” 

Obi-Wan turned to watch him set the cups down, smiled.  “You sound like a teacher.” 

“I hope to be one day.  I believe I could do it well enough, I like to share what I do.”  He set the plate on the brightly covered table and pulled out a chair.  “Please, sit.  Tell me about being a Jedi.” 

“How long do you have?” Obi-Wan asked with a smile as he sat opposite his host. 

“As long as it takes.”  The voice was soft, interested and Obi-Wan found himself staring back at that face with an almost fixated interest.  “Do I have something wrong with my face?” Sarane asked, eyes crossed as he tried to look down at his nose, and Obi-Wan chuckled. 

“No, trust me, there is absolutely nothing wrong with your face.”  Everything much too right with your face, in fact.  “Well, what to tell you about being a Jedi.  It’s rather like your art, a talent that that can take up a lifetime…” 

They talked the afternoon away and Obi-Wan wondered if it was his doom to be enraptured by the image of Qui-Gon through all his life.  Sarane wasn’t Qui-Gon – yet there were so many similarities.  The tilt of the head, the voice, the hesitant smile, the quiet calm.  As if this package of flesh would always be a certain sort of man, and that certain man would attract him again and again, as often as it filled his eyes. 

Finally, it was time to go, as little as he wanted to.  He had duties that evening, a formal gathering at the palace though he would much rather have stayed and talked to Sarane.  He thanked his host for the Cha and stood to go.  As he did so Sarane reached to help him, his hand hovering over the lightsaber that rested on the table.  He looked up, questioning. 

“May I?” 

Obi-Wan nodded, smiled.  “Be careful, its very dangerous.” 

“Yes, I know,” he said in an oddly distracted voice.  He picked up the black and silver weapon carefully, stroked his long fingers over the cool metal.  “Its beautiful.  Did you make it?” 

“No.  It belonged to my….to someone very dear to me.  It’s all I have left of him.”  He held out his hand and Sarane handed him the lightsaber. 

“Thank you. I’ve never touched a Jedi’s lightsaber before.”  He looked back up into Obi-Wan’s face as his guest clipped the saber to his belt.  “Obi-Wan, may I ask you something?” 

“Of course,” he said as he pulled on his robe. 

“I am supposed to do a painting for a competition but my model went off and got himself a good case of the Swamp Spots.  I don’t suppose…is there any way you would consider sitting for me for a painting?” 

“Me?  You want to paint me?” 

“Yes.  I’d very much like to paint you.”  

Obi-Wan watched the blue eyes widen, sensed the flush of interest quickly hidden and licked his lips.  “Ah, well, I’ve never done…” 

“It’s really very easy.  You just sit there and I paint you.  All it takes is time.  I’ll understand if you can’t…” 

“Yes.” It was out before he could think about it, an excuse to come back no matter for what purpose.  “That sounds interesting.  What time?” 

“The morning sun is best.  Say, the tenth hour?”  The wide mouth stretched into a pleased smile.  “You will inspire me to do my best.” 

Obi-Wan nodded, felt himself flush with pleasure.  “Very well, I’ll be here.” 

Sarane showed him to the door and Obi-Wan practically floated down the stairs.  It was stupid, foolish, childish – but he felt like a child, exhilarated and happy.  The first time he’d been really happy in almost ten years.  Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.


	2. Chapter 2

If Obi-Wan was distracted during the night’s events, few knew it.  Anakin and Amidala were the centre of attention, few paid any interest in the Jedi who sat off to one side, eating little, holding a single glass of wine.  

That night he dreamt of Qui-Gon but for the first time in a long time it was a pleasant dream.  He’d loved his Master with more than a Padawan’s loyalty during their last years together and he’d suspected his love had been returned but the terrible fight with the Sith had robbed him of the chance to know, for certain.  The dream turned a little dark at the image of that black and red figure, at the fury and hatred he’d felt as he’d thrown himself at the Sith, fighting with every part of himself, drawing on energies he hadn’t understood had never acknowledged.  The Jedi Council had made him a Knight for his defeat of the Sith but had never inquired as to the method of it, caring only that he’d killed the first Sith known in a thousand years.  And he’d never told anyone of the hot rush of pleasure he’d felt watching the two pieces fall down the shaft. 

He’d buried that awful delight, buried the power he’d sensed lurking at the back of his passion and tried to tell himself it had been a natural response to grief.  But grief didn’t burn hot in one’s guts with an almost sexual pleasure as it viewed the destruction of an enemy.  He could only hope that those feelings would never find another focus. 

The next day he cleaned himself with particular care, washing and brushing his long hair and pulling the side and top sections back behind his head into their normal neat half-braid, shaving his face clean, putting on his best tunics and robe before taking a quick breakfast and his leave of Anakin and Amidala. 

When he arrived at Sarane’s home he found the young artist dressed in a paint-spotted long tunic carting brushes and canvas as he set up his studio for the day’s work.  A couch had been set on a small podium in the centre of the room and the overhead window spilled golden morning sun across the floor.  Obi-Wan had had some vague idea that seeing the young man again would lessen the pull, but if anything it was increased.  He was beautiful, slender and very much alive as he showed Obi-Wan in with a warm welcoming smile. 

“I wasn’t sure if you’d change your mind.  I knew it was very presumptuous of me…” 

“It’s not often I give into an impulse, Sarane, so when I do I like to turn it into a plan.  That way I don’t feel guilty.” 

One eyebrow quirked up in amusement.  “I never knew Jedi were so human.  I’m glad to see you can have foibles like the rest of us.  Now, if you’d like to undress I’ll just get my canvass ready…” 

Obi-Wan blinked.  “Undress?” 

“Yes.  Oh –“  Sarane stopped in mid turn. “You didn’t realise – this is a life portrait, you need to be undressed.  I, um, I don’t paint studies clothed.”  He chewed on the end of one brush.  “You know, you don’t need to be embarrassed.  I’ve pained dozens of people, hundreds probably, all ages, both sexes, all nude.  And I can pose you in a fairly, um, shall we say, non-exhibitionist way.” 

Obi-Wan shrugged and pulled off his robe with a sigh.  “Stupid of me, I didn’t think.  Well, it will be a new experience for me.  I just wish I was as fit as most of your subjects seem to be.” 

“Fit?”  Sarane turned to his canvas to clean it in preparation for the first paint.  “If you don’t mind me saying so, you look very fit to me.  I don’t imagine there are many plump, out-of-condition Jedi running around.” 

“You’d be surprised.”  He turned his back to the artist, suddenly shy as he stripped away his undertunics and leggings, then sat to pull off his boots.  Folding the clothes neatly, he put them on a table next to the wall and then sat, hunched forward slightly.  When he was settled Sarane came out from behind his easel and crouched in front of Obi-Wan. 

“I just need to position you.  If you will permit…”  He touched Obi-Wan’s shoulder, turning him slightly to one side.  “That’s it, now just sit back slightly, you can cross your legs if you like, turn your head…”  As he talked he touched Obi-Wan, positioning his head, his hands, his feet. 

Each touch made a warm spot along Obi-Wan’s nerves and he couldn’t seem to look away from that face so close to his.  Sarane seemed oblivious, concentrating on getting the angles and shadows just right, seemed to have no idea of how he was driving his model silently crazy with each gentle touch.  He stood back finally, hands on hips, assessing clinically. 

“Yes, that’s fine.  If you get tired, let me know and we’ll take a break.  Alright?” 

Obi-Wan nodded, wordless and Sarane returned to his canvas and his brushes. 

He worked for some time, looking up and down from Obi-Wan to the canvas, hardly speaking, his gaze intent.  It was a look that was achingly familiar to the Jedi, that centred concentration that had been, in Qui-Gon, his Master’s centring within the Force.  For Sarane it was becoming one with his art, or so it seemed to his artistically uneducated subject. 

After a couple of hours work they broke for lunch and Sarane carefully covered the canvas. “No peeking,” he said, as Obi-Wan stood to stretch.  “I can’t stand anyone seeing my work before it’s done.  It’s an artists’ ego thing.  Besides, “ he said, unthinkingly rubbing a streak of white paint across his nose, “if its really bad I can scrap it and then no-one knows any better.” 

They spoke about many things over lunch, as Obi-Wan sat wrapped in one of Sarane’s robes eating fruit and drinking wine.  Life on Naboo, art, the life of a Jedi.  Never the most relaxed conversationalist, Obi-Wan found Sarane easy to talk to and he revealed more of his thoughts and feelings than he ever had to anyone.  It just felt good to have someone to talk to, someone to like just for themselves. 

Yet he knew it was more than simple liking, though that was there as well.  There was something going on between them, some subliminal contact that fanned the need in him no matter how he tried to cool it down.  He couldn’t tell if it was likely to be reciprocated in any way – he had little experience of romance or intimate contact.  All he knew was that his heart and body and mind were combining to tell him that there, right there, was what he needed to make so many things right. 

His own inhibitions kept him silent for the rest of the day but he found himself agreeing to a further sitting the next day, thought there were duties he should be performing.  He returned to the Palace more tired than he should  have been after hours of merely sitting.  Sitting and wanting and controlling himself – sometimes the emotional stresses could be more exhausting than the physical ones. 

Anakin was waiting for him when he arrived.  His Padawan had grown into a tall, good looking young man with his close-cropped golden brown hair and intent blue eyes.  He watched Obi-Wan’s arrival at the royal accommodation wing with restrained impatience. 

“Master!  We were wondering… you haven’t been in contact with us all day.  Is everything alright?” 

“Everything is fine, Anakin.  Why, is there a problem here?” 

“No.” Anakin followed him up the wide marble stairs.  “Will you be attending the wedding planning discussion tomorrow?” 

“Yes, of course.  What time have you set it for?” 

“Mid afternoon we thought was best, and everyone can join us for dinner.  You could – bring a friend – if you wanted to.” 

Obi-Wan stopped, turned to look up at his apprentice.” A friend?” 

“Well, you said you were going to visit a friend.”  Anakin shrugged, eyebrows peaked.  “You don’t have many friends here so I thought you might like to bring him for dinner.” 

Him.  Obi-Wan pursed his lips.  Anakin had been spying on him – or Amidala had.  “Thank you Anakin, I shall think about it.  I’m quite tired now, so I’ll say goodnight and see you tomorrow.” 

“Yes Master.  Goodnight.”  Obi-Wan walked on alone, aware of the watching gaze, sensing the curiosity and some disquiet along their training link.  It was a formalised linking, with none of the warmth he’d shared with his own Master.  He sighed, wishing he could give Anakin the closeness he deserved.  He’d done his best to teach the boy but suspected that he’d held too much of himself back.  Perhaps too much of him had died with Qui-Gon. 

Yet he acknowledged, as he changed for bed, that he had opened himself more to Sarane than he ever had to his Padawan.  He just couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad thing. 

He dreamed again that night as his subconscious mixed up the images, superimposing a young face topped by light hair over that of an older face in brief flashes and the artist showed him a painting of a burning figure with no face at all and said, stay still, Obi-Wan so I can finish the features and it was him in the pyre instead of Qui-Gon who had died on that day and all the years since had been a dream of life….

 

  
The dream was a muddled memory when he woke, quickly forgotten in the rush to be gone.  The bright and cluttered rooms were becoming familiar and Sarane let him in with another of his welcoming smiles.  
  
"Have you had breakfast," he asked as he set fruit, freshly baked bread and cha on the table.  "I have plenty if you haven't eaten.  I went shopping this morning to the planter's market so everything is fresh."  
  
They sat chatting over the food and Obi-Wan felt as if he had known Sarane forever, and in spite of knowing it was foolish he kept seeing afterimages of Qui-Gon on the young man’s features.  He knew it was a dangerous delusion but it simply wouldn't go away.

As Sarane prepared his palette and tools Obi-Wan undressed and settled himself onto the couch, warmed by the sun coming in through the ceiling and the sense of strange contentment.  It was an odd thing for a Jedi to be doing, posing nude for a painting but nevertheless the morning passed easily as they talked and as Sarane painted.  They spoke of music and art, of Obi-Wan's work and Sarane's art, and the hours of the day slid slowly and comfortably by.

They stopped for lunch and Obi-Wan dressed himself in leggings and one tunic so that Sarane could take him to lunch in a small cafe nearby.  After food and wine they returned to finish the afternoon's session in the last golden light of the day.

"I've run out of Tirlian Blue," Sarane said, holding up an empty paint tube, "so I just have to get another from my stores.  I won't be long."  
  
Obi-Wan nodded and settled back against the couch, content to drowse in the morning sun coming through the high windows, in the first true peace he'd known for years. . .  
  
  
  
Morte returned to his rooms to find Obi-Wan asleep on the couch and he stood inside the door watching the still figure, his eyes thoughtful.  
  
It had been remarkably simple to lie to him and to have the fairly intricate lie believed.  Loneliness was an emotion with which he was all too familiar and he easily recognised it in the Jedi.  The feelings he sensed in this man had triggered far too many reciprocal feelings for his own peace of mind.  It should have been simple.  It was simple.  The problem was, he wasn't sure of his ability to remain untouched.  
  
He stood looking down at the quiet, naked figure and wondered if it wouldn't be better to simply kill him as he slept.  Sideous would believe a tale of sudden violence and mistrust.  While he might find his twisted revenge more palatable he would accept Kenboi's death easily enough in its place.  Especially with his own lightsaber, which had been trustingly left on the table.    
  
Trust.  He dropped the paint tube on the table and knelt down in front of the older man, watched the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, reached out to lightly touch the red-gold hair.  It would be easy to trust this one, just as he knew he could never really trust his Master.  Though his actual years alive had been few, he felt as if he'd lived two lifetimes in those years.  Learned far more about the ways of trust and deceit than the sleeping Jedi ever would.  
  
As his hand lingered on the warm shoulder, Obi-Wan stirred and whispered a name.  
  
".. .Qui-Gon . . ."  
  
Morte's hand stilled.  He felt a flush of some deep regret, an odd tinge of jealousy.  * He wants me but he still dreams of his dead Jedi Master *.  It was expected.  What wasn't expected was that he felt some sort of regret.  
  
Yet still Kenobi was there, under his hand, under his control far more than he knew.  He ran his hand gently down the arm and saw the changeable eyes open, flickering awareness growing in them and he sat up slowly.  
  
"Sorry to wake you," Morte said softly, "but I need to get you positioned while we have the light."  Now was the time to return to his role, the gentle aesthetic artist and he tried to do that but his fingers insisted on roaming, running gently up to the face, watching as Obi-Wan closed his eyes and pressed his face into the open palm.  
  
He did then what he'd wanted to do since that moment when he'd looked up at the Jedi in the alley as he'd stood there haloed by the sun.  He ran his fingers up into the long hair, freeing the back braid, running his fingers through its silky length.  Bending forward, he buried his face in its clean mass and felt arms wrap around him, stroke his back in slow, contented sweeps.  
  
The gentleness was almost his undoing.  He pulled back and saw the bright eyes looking up at him in silent need and bent forward again to kiss that mouth, hands deep in the fall of hair at the back of Obi-Wan's head.  The lips opened under his and he tasted the hot warmth of the Jedi's mouth with sensuous pleasure.    
  
It was happening faster than he'd intended but he couldn't seem to help himself.  It would be terribly easy to lose himself in this one, to let the pleasure of the Jedi's touch overwhelm his plans.  It must be what natural  passion felt like, he thought, as he ran moist lips over Obi-Wan's face, over the cheeks, the eyes, the forehead, around to the ears and under to the taught, warm skin of his throat.  He felt the Jedi's shivering surrender, knew he could do whatever he wanted with him.  It was intoxicating, to manipulate such power, to enslave such a will.  
  
He continued his peaceful exploration, tasting the salty clean skin, hands moving over powerful muscles of arm and chest as his mouth moved down to lick and nip at one raised bud.  The Jedi was exploring as well, touching his head, running across his shoulders, slipping inside the waistband of his pants.  He arched up slightly and allowed the hand entry so that it could feel his growing arousal.  He hissed a little as Kenobi stroked his penis, moaned against another nipple as that hand took him in a firm grip and began to stroke.  
  
He arched his head back and looked up into the flushed face, into hooded hot eyes.  The Jedi's voice was a shaky whisper, begging for his touch.  
  
Morte pulled back enough to pull his clothing away, to slide out of tunic and pants, to kick off his shoes and slide naked next to Obi-Wan so that they lay skin to skin, head to foot and Obi-Wan cried out as Morte slid up into a crouch and took the obviously rampant cock into his mouth.  
  
He was incredibly responsive, shivering and twisting as the younger man's mouth swallowed him to the root and it required little in the way of fellatio before Morte sensed the tensing of hips and balls and he pulled back and collected the pulsing stream of seed into his hand.  Obi-Wan sighed in pleasure and leant towards him, mouth open in a silent plea for more, more kisses, more touches.  
  
"Do you want me to take you now?" he asked the Jedi, running his hot mouth over the flushed, damp skin of face and throat.  "Do you want me inside you, Obi-Wan?"  
  
"Yes..yes..inside me.."  
  
It was what he had been waiting for, the quiet, desperate plea to be taken.  Sliding his hands around Obi-Wan's hips, he pushed him over onto his stomach, raised his ass and smeared Obi-Wan's seed over his penis.  With the other hand he slipped a finger through the sphincter, worked the muscle, touched deeply inside until the Jedi was arching himself upwards, spreading his legs in mute appeal.  
  
It was the simplest thing to push himself gently inside that hot, tight body.  Gently, a little at a time, he worked his way in until he was fully inserted, then pulled back and pushed up against the prostate, delivering measured strokes of pleasure that matched his own delicious thrusts.  He worked the perspiring body under him faster and faster until he sensed Obi-Wan's arousal increasing.  He slid his hands underneath, took Obi-Wan's damp penis and squeezed it in matching rhythm to his own strokes.   
  
They came almost at the same time, writhing in mutual pleasure as that delightful erotic electricity fired along their nerves to the pleasure centres of the brain.  It was wonderful to fuck the Jedi under him, held in such perfect unsuspecting submission, sobbing against him in the afterglow of release, reduced from his prime strength to this weak and vulnerable shell.  
  
He considered again that it might be better to kill then, while he had the chance.  They were natural enemies, Jedi and Sith, it would be easy.  Should be easy . . . .He watched Obi-Wan’s eyelids flicker,  his nostrils flare with each panting breath.  One less Jedi, would that be such a bad thing? 

  
As he wondered what it was about this contradiction in his arms that sparked such unexpected compassion.  Compassion wasn't allowed.  Any more than love was.  Perhaps it was just the after affects of sex.  In the light of day the matter would be resolved and the plan would carry through as it should.   
  
Pulling himself together, Morte stood from the couch and gathered his clothing.  He said nothing as he dressed, then turned to smile down into the older man's perplexed face. "That was very nice.  Thank you."  
  
"Nice - -!"  Kenobi rubbed his face, confusion swelling out of him, mixed with an attractive flush of pain.  "Thank you?  Is that all there is?"  
  
He shrugged, smiled again.  "I'm sorry.  What else should there be?  You're quite attractive and it was physically pleasant.  We hardly know each other, after all."  He moved away, a little concerned at the increasing flash of regret he felt when he sensed the Jedi's pain.  "I'm sorry to rush you, but I have a dinner appointment this evening.  Perhaps we can continue the sitting tomorrow?"  
  
  
  
By the time he arrived at the Palace it was growing dark and he was tired and confused so that he could barely concentrate on where he had to go.  As he reached the living area he caught sight of Anakin striding towards him and remembered the missed appointment, felt a rush of embarrassment and guilt at his thoughtlessness.  He was about to set himself for an apology when he sensed a fizz of annoyance along the training link - it rubbed against his already inflamed nerves, shredding the last of his control.  
  
"Master!  You missed the meeting - it was very important."  
  
"Padawan, I do not need you to instruct me on my behaviour!  Keep to your place!"  
  
Anakin pulled up, shocked and angry.  "My - place!  Is it too much to ask - Master - that you stand with me when I need you?"  His voice dropped to a sarcastic snarl.  "But, of course, that has never been of any concern to you, has it - my needs.  You would rather be mounting some aesthetic pimp than being with me at."  
  
Obi-Wan swung around with a snarl, grabbed Anakin and shoved him into a nearby wall.  "How dare you spy on me!  How dare you speak to me so!"  He'd never felt such fury, it boiled out through his skin, he literally saw red.  
  
Anakin pushed him back, shoving him through the Force.  "Spy?  I wanted to know where you were and the Royal security team gave me the details.  I've known all these years that you never wanted me as you Padawan."  Anakin's face was white with fury and pain.  "You made it perfectly clear back then and I would have to be a blind fool not to have known it these past ten years, but this is low even for you!  The great Obi-Wan Kenobi - if only they all knew!"  
  
It was too much.  Obi-Wan raised a hand and slapped Anakin back-handed across the face with the full force of his arm.  The younger man flew backwards into the wall, pulled his lightsaber with a scream of anger and launched himself at Obi-Wan.  
  
Obi-Wan's lightsaber leapt into his hand and the two sizzling blades met in a crash and hiss.  They fought like madmen, hacking at each other, no finesse, just anger and the pulsing dark energy of the Force.  
  
Before either could break through the other's defence there was a sound of footsteps at the top of the stairs and a high, young voice. "Stop it!  Stop it both of you!  
  
A small figure dressed in a white sleeping robe flew down the stairs and pushed between them, knocking them off balance.  Obi-Wan looked down into Amidala's furious white face.  
  
"What is the matter with you both?  Are you mad?"  She grabbed Anakin's arm as rose to strike again, looked up into his wide angry eyes.  "Ani - stop this!  I will not have it!"  
  
The heated anger seemed to dissipate suddenly and both men backed away, Obi-Wan being the first to extinguish his blade.  He bowed to Amidala.  "Your Majesty, my apologies."  He looked at Anakin but couldn't think of a word to say.  With a brief nod he turned and walked out of the Palace.  
  
At the top of the stairs, Chancellor Palpatine observed Obi-Wan's departure, as he had the fight, with intense pleasure.


	3. Chapter 3

He wandered through the nightime streets, blind to everything around him.  What had he become?  Irrational?  Stupid?  To fall in love with a face, to be so dazed and stupefied that he fought his own Padawan?  He was obviously unfit to be a Master, especially of someone as volatile and dangerous as Anakin.  He would speak to Yoda, to the Council, he would seek help -  
  
He stopped when he saw where he was - at the foot of the stairs to Sarane's rooms.  He looked up at the closed door, hesitated, then began to climb.  What he needed was closure.  To see this young man, to apologise, to find his serenity once more and leave.  Apologise to Anakin and start again.  That was the best thing.  
  
He knocked at the door and it opened after a few moments and Sarane was standing there dressed in nothing but moonlight.  His skin glowed silver and Obi-Wan shivered.  
  
"Do you always greet visitors naked?" he asked, seeing the smiling eyes watching him, unable to turn away.  
  
"Only when I take a peek through the security viewer to see who is there.  I hoped you'd come back, so that I could apologise."  He stepped back, held the door open.  "Will you come in, so I can?"  
  
Drawn against his better sense, Obi-Wan nodded and stepped inside.  He let Sarane take his robe and guide him to a chair, watched in silence as the younger man wrapped the long brown robe around himself.    
  
"Hmm.." he smiled as he pushed his arms up the sleeves, "its warm from your body.  I like that."  He sat in a chair opposite Obi-Wan, the robe pooling around his feet and smiled that familiar, gut-clenching smile.  "So, will you forgive me?  I have this tendency to put distance between myself and other people.  Is rather instinctive, it's nothing I can really explain."  
  
That was something Obi-Wan could understand, in fact.  "No, it's quite alright.  I shouldn't have done it and I'm sorry."  
  
"Sorry, sorry, everyone is sorry."  He slid from his chair, moved across the small distance to sit on Obi-Wan's lap, his legs either side of Obi-Wan's, groin to groin.  "Come to bed and let me really apologise."  
  
* Get up, leave now.  End this!*  The brain was making all the right noises but the body was flaming up, overwhelming it, ignoring it.  He wrapped his arms around Sarane inside the robe, cold hands making the younger man shiver as they slipped over warm, clean skin.  
  
"Let me warm you up," Sarane whispered as he suckled on Obi-Wan's throat, licked his way around to one ear, the up over his cheek to his mouth.  "I can do that."  
  
It was too late then for reason.  They stood in a tangle of arms and legs as he pulled his clothing off in a rush.  Passion carried them across the floor to the bed and somehow Sarane was on top and Obi-Wan moaned as he crawled onto his knees, spread himself for his lover, gave into the hungry pleasure as he was taken up to and over the edge of orgasm.  Every thought, every concern, every principle, was swallowed by the wonderful sense of joining.  
  
  
It had been good, that taking, and Morte finally understood the two sides of the Force.  Light had flared under him, bright and strong and he'd watched it fade to shadow as hunger had overwhelmed the Jedi.  He saw why so few of them loved.  Love was fine, but it was very close to so many other darker emotions.  Desperation had led this man towards darkness.  It was an adequate lesson.  
  
He slid out and turned Obi-Wan over, stroked the damp face, saw and felt the pleasure radiating out of the Jedi like body heat and he knew the moment was right.  He spoke in a gentle, even voice.  
  
"I look like him, don't I?  Like Qui-Gon?"  
  
He felt the sudden shock, held on with his legs and his body, with his abruptly revealed power within the Force.  
  
"There's a very good reason for that.  We are the same in every physical way that counts, your dead Master and I.  I am his clone, the child of his flesh."  He felt the shock radiating out of the body beneath him, took it and blended it with his own surprising pain.  "Did you think that death was the end?  Did you believe that a Sith comes only in one guise?  You have killed one and been taken by one."  He thrust his mental touch into the shattering mind, saw the eyes go blind with pain and grief, found the raw place where the barely made bond with Qui-Gon and been and joined with it.  
  
"To be with me, you need only deny everything you believe in and forsake the Jedi.  If you do, I will be there for you, I will leave you a sign.  Then you must decide whether you wish to kill me or have me.  A very simple choice."  He took his hand away and before Obi-Wan could move, slammed the edge of it into the Jedi's temple in a perfectly controlled blow.  
  
When Obi-Wan woke, he was alone.  
  
He walked back to the Palace in a daze.  Beyond confusion, beyond pain, he was somewhere lost and utterly shattered as one emotion after another stampeded through his mind.  
  
A clone.  A clone of Qui-Gon.  A Sith clone of Qui-Gon!  It seemed the Universe had decided to make him the butt of some enormous twisted joke.  Not content with taking away the person he loved most, it had given that person back to him as an enemy sworn to destroy him and everything he believed in.  There was a pattern to it, but it wasn't one he could appreciate.  
  
All he could feel was pain and a renewal of desperation.  Just when he thought the wounds might healing, this had opened them again.  Only worse. Worse.  To lose Qui-Gon to the flames had been bad enough.  That he should come again in the guise of a lover and be this newborn thing of the Dark..  
  
He honestly didn't know what to do.  Go to the Council and tell them he'd found a clone of Qui-Gon, a clone that was the mysterious Sith Lord's newest apprentice?  "And how do you know this?"  they would reasonably ask.  "Oh, it just came up in the conversation.  While we were in bed.  While he was on top of me.."  
  
He couldn't go back, he couldn't go forward.  He could only go up or down.    
  
He walked and walked and finally found himself in the little chapel with the stone byre where Qui-Gon had been laid to rest.  It was clean, without a trace of ash, and the cold stone seemed a fair bed for a falling Jedi.  He climbed up onto it and lay there and cried as he hadn't done since Qui-Gon had died, great silent tears that wet the dusty stone.  He wondered if it would hurt when he finally hit bottom.

  
  
"I am very pleased.  You have done well, my Apprentice."    
  
Morte watched his Master walking back and forth across the balcony, his black robe swirling around his feet.  He sensed the pleasure, the dark satisfaction, tried to absorb and understand it as he always did.  Something bothered him and Sideous sensed it, paused in his movement.  
  
"I sense you are disturbed."  
  
It was a question and Morte rose to cross to the window.  Dressed in black, his long hair tied behind him in a single braid, he stood next to his Master and looked out over the sleeping city. "Yes.  I cannot really explain it.  I find myself feeling sympathy for him."  
  
Sideous gave a mild snort, laid one hand on the slender arm.  "Sympathy is a weakness which I can use but not admire.  Banish it.  You've hurt him badly and damaged, if not destroyed, his relationship with his apprentice.  Just a little more of a nudge and he'll fall completely.  Or go insane, which is a perfectly adequate alternative."  
  
Morte sighed and buried the sympathy.  "Yes, Master.  What should I do now.?  He would be easily killed, he wouldn't defend himself, I think."  
  
"I could have killed him at any time.  I want him destroyed from the inside out.  I have already seen to it that Amidala will complain to the Jedi Council about his behaviour last night."  The air rang with dark satisfaction.  "He won't be able to explain himself without saying how it came about.  So he must either lie to them and darken himself by that act, or tell the truth - that he lay with a Sith.  Either way, he is damned."   
  
He turned and walked away from the window, left Morte standing alone.  "I will be returning to Coruscant tomorrow.  If he goes there I will keep track of his movements.  If not, you will follow him.  Do what you think best to him, but don't kill him until he asks to die."  He turned at the door, face hidden by his hod.  "And bring me his right hand, the hand that struck my apprentice.  I'll keep it as a memento."  
  
Morte stood alone in the dark for a long time, trying to understand the passions that drove his Master.  He used the Dark with discrimination, turned on the anger and the other dark feelings at will but he had learned the way of disconnecting himself from them.  It meant disconnecting himself from * all * emotions, but that had been fine, too.  It was like switching on a lightsaber.  Turn on anger, draw on the Dark, put it away along with the anger.  There was nothing personal about it.  It was simply a tool.  
  
He lit a lamp and looked in a wall mirror at his reflection.  What did Kenobi see?  A face from his past, obviously not the same man.  Yet he allowing himself to be destroyed by a resemblance.  A genetic coincidence.  How very odd.  
  
*He must have loved him very much.  To come back to me after such pain, to try again.  What does it feel like to be loved like that?  To love like that? *  
  
He had never known it but the memory of Obi-Wan's hunger was in his thoughts like the faint odour of sex on his skin.  He wanted to know more.   
  
It was time to make the first moves towards the turning to the dark of a Jedi Knight.  He returned to the rooms in the city to leave Obi-Wan a message.  
  
  
Feeling sorry for himself solved nothing.  He came to that realisation in the light of the cold morning after some serious introspection.  Qui-Gon would have been ashamed of him, for so losing his control.  He was a Jedi, the other man was a Sith. His duty was clear - to hunt him down and destroy him.  Then, perhaps, he would find some peace.  
  
He gathered himself together and went in search of Morte.  The obvious place to check for clues was the rooms where he had carried on his well-crafted deceptions.  The rooms were unlocked, bare of furniture, swept clean.  All that remained was an easel sitting in the middle of the room with a painting on it.  
  
It was the painting that Sarane had been working on.  There he was, sprawled naked and somehow sensual on the couch.  It was a good work.had Qui-Gon been an artist, he wondered..but it was the background that caught his attention.  Not the room behind the couch but another place.  A familiar place.  
  
The room with the pit behind the laser barriers where he and Qui-Gon had fought another Sith.  Where Qui-Gon had died in his arms.  It was his invitation, it seemed.  Go back to where it had all begun, to that place that he'd thought had been an ending of his dreams.  Or perhaps the birth of his doom.  

And signed on the corner, in black paint, was one word. 

Morte.  
  
Tired, hungry and stretched in ways he couldn't rationalise, Obi-Wan walked through the city in the early morning mist and journeyed down into the underground and back into the past.

  
  
  
Mote sensed Kenobi's approach.   That linked he'd forged in the Jedi's mind let him feel the man's proximity as much by the increasing sense of his emotion as anything.  It was stronger than the bond he shared with Sideous - then, he hadn't lain with his Master.  If I kill him, he wondered, will I feel his death as well?  
   
Easy to say it, even visualise it - but picturing his 'saber slicing into Kenobi gave him no satisfaction.  The Dark energies swirled around him, telling him to destroy, to taste the death of an enemy, to drink his pain.  As the laser walls began opening and closing, as he sensed the Jedi's approach, he drew on the Force and climbed to his feet.  Though his lightsaber was in his hand he didn't ignite it.  He waited for the moment to reach its balance and to reveal the flow of the future to him.  
  
  
Obi-Wan moved carefully past the last laser wall and stopped just inside.  It was familiar, his sleeping subconscious had brought him there many times to relive that moment.  Here, where Qui-Gon had been in his arms, where he had watched the life faded from his eyes, letting the love he had for his Padawan flow through to him with such tenderness that it had broken Obi-Wan's heart.  They hadn't needed to speak of it, it had been all around them, like perfume, like light.  
  
But he'd died despite Obi-Wan's denials and now this copy, this offspring of his skin and blood was standing on the opposite side of the pit, a lovely image clothed in darkness.  Not black, he noted, but dark blue, and he'd taken the colour from his hair so that it was its proper golden brown, pulled back behind his head in a tight tail.  He even had the faint traces of a brown beard shading that firm chin.  More and more like Qui-Gon, harder still to resist.  
  
 What had he said?  Have him or kill him?  His duty was clear;  he flicked a finger over the control of his lightsaber and the green blade sprang out.  Qui-Gon's lightsaber, a fitting tool to end the life of this, the only offspring of his Master's body.  This - thing - that he needed to kill and wanted to touch.  
  
He moved carefully around the pit, not taking his eyes from the still figure.  Still Morte didn't lift his hand, didn't ignite his weapon and Obi-Wan wasn't sure if he could cut down someone who didn't defend themselves.  Surely that wasn't the Jedi way?  He stopped, drawn to look into the watchful, calm face in spite of himself.  A smile lifted one corner of the wide mouth in an achingly familiar half-smile.  
  
"So, Obi-Wan, have you chosen?"  
  
"There is no choice."  His voice was a diminished croak.  "What you look like doesn't change what you are."  
  
"And what am I?  Sith?  Enemy?"  Morte took a step forward, very carefully, not taking his eyes from Obi-Wan's, holding him frozen like some hunted beast caught in the glare of a targeting light.  "Your Master?"    
  
Closer, closer still and Obi-Wan's mind was screaming, strike him!  But he stood, motionless as Morte stepped inside the range of his lightsaber, moving so close that the bright blade hissed at the proximity.    
  
"My Jedi.. ."  His breath whispered across Obi-Wan's skin as he lifted one hand, apparently unconcerned at the death so close to him, and slid it behind Obi-Wan's head, fingers slipping through his hair.  He pulled Obi-Wan's head up - though, in truth, he didn't resist - and then he was being kissed, and kissing, tasting the hot mouth, tongue on tongue, lips bruising from the strength of it.  The hunger exploded between them and Obi-Wan forgot to breathe - and then he pulled himself back, stumbled, almost fell into the pit and swung his lightsaber horizontally in a desperate, keening swipe.  Darkness exploded around them.  
  
Morte smiled and leapt backwards, bringing his own red blade up alight.  He knocked aside Obi-Wan's flurry of attacks, moving with extraordinary grace.    
  
Obi-Wan didn't speak, his entire strength was centred on maintaining his position.  He only knew that he'd come very close to falling, to tossing his weapon away and letting the other man do whatever he wanted to.  He fought with cold and desperate anger.  This Qui-Gon copy was young and strong, his skills honed to flashing perfection.  Obi-Wan knew he was good, perhaps the best living Jedi swordsman.  This Sith was better.  Quicker, unafraid, goading Obi-Wan with flashing brilliance.  Trying to make him lose himself and give into to that dark power so close to the edge of his control, the hungry easy power he'd called on when he'd fought the other Sith.    
  
How long they fought for he didn't know.  It could have been minutes or hours.  The time dilated as they moved with Force-enhanced speed, spinning and tumbling, their blades crashing against each other with arm-numbing power.  It was a lesson for Obi-Wan to see what perfection could be achieved by his enemy who seemed to glow with contained power.  The two Forces, Dark and Light,  surged around them, though to Obi-Wan the Light seemed somehow frail at that moment.  Though neither was less or greater than the other, the vessels incorporating the power were not so equally matched.  Obi-Wan grew tired, his skin drenched with sweat, his hair clinging to his face and finally he stumbled.  
  
Morte didn't hesitate.  Flipping onto his left hand he spun horizontally and kicked Obi-Wan's feet from under him as he momentarily lost his balance.  Obi-Wan staggered backwards - straight into the pit. 

 

It happened so fast that Obi-Wan didn’t even have time to be afraid.  He fell backwards, felt the floor disappear beneath his feet – and suddenly a hand was holding his wrist and his fall came to an abrupt halt.  He looked up and saw that the Sith was lying on the floor, hanging over the edge of the pit and with a hard grip on his left wrist. 

Obi-Wan had no strength left to call on.  He knew that if that black-gloved hand left him go he would fall.  If he struck at Morte with the lightsaber still held in his right hand he would die.  Either way, it seemed he was in for a long fall.  He looked up into the damp features, into watching eyes. 

“Your call,” said the slightly breathless voice, “but chose quickly.  You’ve managed to…tire me out.”  The grip on his wrist moved slightly and he scrabbled hopelessly at the wall.  “Just let the lightsaber fall and I’ll pull you up.” 

The ‘saber hilt was wet and sticky in his grip, so familiar after all the years he’d held it.  Qui-Gon’s weapon, the only thing left of him.  Except for the man who held his life literally in his hands.  In spite of the dire shadows of the moment, the Force suddenly swirled around Obi-Wan once more – not to give strength, but to give vision.  Sometimes, it said,  it is necessary to bend so that one is not broken.  Sometimes in the throwing away, we gain. 

He opened his hand…his right hand…and the lightsaber fell down into the pit.  He let it go, sensed that last lingering touch of Qui-Gon fading from him as it went.  It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. 

Turning back, he grabbed Morte’s wrist and hung on as he was pulled up and over the edge.   He lay on his back, gasping for breath, as the Sith knelt on one knee beside him.  They waited for some moments while heartbeats slowed and breath steadied and Morte finally reached out to touch Obi-Wan’s head with an oddly tender touch. 

Hope faded in the light of reality.  Qui-Gon had always tried to teach him to confirm his existence in the moment, but that moment seemed only to confirm his despair.  All the alternatives suddenly seemed to be dead ends.  Obi-Wan just stopped trying.  He let the tension slide away and gave his life into the hands of his enemy. 

As if sensing that moment of decision, Morte settled on the floor beside him, reached out and slid his hands behind Obi-Wan’s throat.  Obi-Wan looked up into eyes that were so familiar that his heart ached from the load of memories that came together, all intermingled with grief and guilt.  

“Stay with me, Obi-Wan,” the clone said in Qui-Gon’s voice and he swallowed an all-too-ready acceptance.  

* No. *  He spoke the denial, thought it, refused his heart’s desire.  Closing his eyes to shut himself from that face he felt the fingers tighten around his throat.  It would solve all problems,  was a good time to die, held near the closest thing to perfection he would know in life  - - he thought of Qui-Gon’s lighsaber tumbling down into the dark, alone  - - the fingers tightened and pressed and he let go - -  

 

Just a little more.  Tighten his grip and the man would be dead.  It was what his Master wanted – the Jedi had been willing to die, to let Morte kill him.  His duty was clear.  Just a little more.  He sensed the mind beginning to fail as breath was held from the body, as the heart strained and faltered….. 

And he stopped. 

Morte looked at the man lying limply in his arms and shook his head.  Why?  Why was this so difficult?  He’d killed before, done dark work for his Master that had not touched him.  Why should this man be any different? 

* Emotion is a tool.  The nice ones can be pleasant but they must be marshalled, controlled, invoked only at my will and in my own time.  What I am feeling for this man is not only dangerous but irrational.  . . . * 

He stroked untidy damp tendrils of hair back from Obi-Wan’s forehead, and remembered.

Not facts, but feelings - when Kenobi turned a certain way, had a certain look in his eyes. He sniffed at his own foolishness and stood, dragging the Jedi up and propping him over his shoulder.  Memory didn’t carry across on a cellular level, he knew that.  It was more likely to be something he was picking up from the Jedi.  Sometimes, though, he could swear he was seeing the man through another set of eyes, another perception . . . 

“If you’re there, Master Qui-Gon,” he muttered to the empty air as he walked towards the doorway, “please go away.  I am having quite enough trouble being who I am, thank you.” 

 

The holographic image of Anakin Skywalker stood tall and composed in the middle of the Jedi Council Chamber.  Only two Masters were present to hear his report – Yoda and Mace. 

“…and I can only say, Masters, that I was deeply shocked.  Master Kenobi is clearly unbalanced, he has been behaving oddly for some time now but this was almost…almost irrational!” 

Mace steepled his fingers and studied the image of the young man.  “This is most unlike Obi-Wan.  What do you know of this person he was meeting with?” 

 “Nothing.  I only had the facts of the meetings reported to me by Amidala’s security.” 

Yoda chewed on the tip of one large finger nail.  “Hmm.  Very surprising, this is.  Find Obi-Wan we must, and question him.  Still on Naboo is he?” 

“I’m not sure, Master Yoda.  Our link has never been all that strong.  I sense he may be but I am unable to locate him, nor has Palace Security had an success.  He has simply vanished.” 

“Anakin,” Mace asked coolly, “do you think you did or said anything to Obi-Wan to warrant such an action?  An action which must be considered extremely serious for a Jedi to take against his Padawan-learner?” 

Even across the distance the two Masters could see Anakin’s anger flourish on his features.  “Warrant it?  Warrant being insulted and rejected by my own Masters?  I think not!” 

Mace held up one hand.  “Be calm, Anakin.  We must ask questions to discover the source of this difficulty.”  He sighed, looked across to Yoda, who nodded after a moment.  “Very well, I will come to Naboo and find out what may be found.  Leave this with us for now but let the Council know if you discover anything further of Obi-Wan’s whereabouts, or any other relevant information.” 

The holographic Anakin bowed.  “Yes Masters.  Good day.” 

The image faded and Mace turned back to Yoda.  “This isn’t good.  I’m frankly astonished at this turn of events.” 

Yoda slid down from his chair and walked through the empty space where Anakin’s image had been.  He stared down at the patterned floor.  “Very disturbing this is.  Anakin’s training always was a difficult one.  Trusted Obi-Wan I did to manage him.  There are disturbances in the Force, dark patterns.”  He turned back to look up into the concerned dark eyes. “You must be careful.  I sense disaster.” 

They waited in silence for a time, the small Master and the tall man, feeling the flux and change of the Future that carried with it the worrying sense of ruin.


	4. Chapter 4

Morte had carried the unconscious Jedi to a small room in the basement of the Palace.  He’d made sure the man wouldn’t wake for some time and had then moved upwards with stealthy care to find his Master and report.  Using their training link he tracked him through the dimly lit corridors to a particular room.  He was about to enter when he heard voices inside, his Master and someone else.  He found a stairway leading up the wall to an overlooking balcony and he slipped inside to watch and listen, using the powers of illusion that he’d been taught to keep his presence unknown.  If Sideous sensed him along their dark bond he gave no sign of it. . . 

 

Anakin stepped down from the transmitter and turned to the man behind him. 

“It seems you were right, sir.  They still believe in him.  Even after everything that they’ve been told.” 

Palpatine stood and walked around the chair where he had been sitting quietly while Anakin made his report.  He patted the young man on the shoulder. 

“I am sorry, Anakin.  You have been betrayed by Kenobi and, it seems, by his fellow Jedi on the Council.  I do hate being right in such a situation.”  He walked beside the young man as they left the room.  “Remember what I said.  Being Jedi is not everything in the Universe a person can hope for.  There is much good that you could do at my side.  They may not care for your welfare, but you may believe that I do.”  He hesitated for a moment.  “Come to my quarters and we’ll discuss plans.  I’ll join you in a moment.” 

Anakin nodded and left and Palpatine turned to look up, eyebrows drawn together in a frown.  He could have sworn…but no, the balcony was shadowed and empty.  The buzz of the moment, the excitement of the hunt, had blocked everything but for a moment he thought he’d sensed a presence…..With a shrug, he turned and left the room, mind swirling with plans. 

 

 

Morte went up to the roof the think in the clean emptiness of the open air.  What Sideous had said to Skywalker had been obvious enough.  He was courting the boy, seducing him away from the Jedi.  Even Morte had heard of Skywalker’s enormous midi-chlorian count, of his potential for power but he had seemed safe and happy with the Jedi.  Apparently his Master saw the chance to turn potentially the most powerful living Force user to his side and he was taking it. 

* Only two.  Only two. *  The words kept rebounding inside Morte’s skull, singing along his nerves, making him clench the smooth stone of the low balcony wall till his fingers bled.  * And what will be my fate?  Sent on some hopeless mission, or simply a knife in the back when it’s turned to him? * 

Perhaps he was wrong, perhaps Sideous simply couldn’t resist doing damage to the Jedi and perhaps…he shook his head, chewed on his lip as he paced the empty, cool darkness.  No, he wasn’t wrong, he’d sensed the avarice, the wanting.  Sideous could have only one apprentice.  There could only ever be two Sith.  Which meant one had to go. 

* But not me.  I’m not done with this life he gave me yet.  Too much to do, too much to learn. *  This lesson was the most painful his Master had taught him, though.  Even though he’d told himself he couldn’t trust Sideous, still he had, in his naivety.  He wanted to howl at the night sky, scream out the rage and pain that had so suddenly struck him. What little value was his loyalty to the Dark Side, after every breath, every moment, had been dedicated to it, and to his Master and maker within it?  If he’d been the sort of man to weep, he might have done it then.  

* You could trust Obi-Wan. *  The thought popped up and he sucked in a deep, unhappy breath.  * When your friends betray you, perhaps its time to turn to your enemy.  At least I know where I stand there. * 

He moved through the shadows and back to where he’d left the Jedi, thoughts buzzing with plans and dedicated to the destruction of a Sith Lord. 

 

 

Obi-Wan woke to darkness.  Disoriented, it took him some moments to remember.  He was alive, unharmed – and alone.  He reached out with the Force for the light control and tried to activate it but it was either faulty or disconnected.  The door wouldn’t open, the touch controls were dead and no amount of pushing or tugging would move it.  

With no lightsaber to cut through the door and no communicator to call for help, direct action was denied him.  He settled back onto the floor to wait, and to think. 

As he closed his eyes and slid down against the wall his first sensation was intimate and unfamiliar – shame.  Shame for his weakness, embarrassment that he had allowed himself to be manipulated so easily.  He followed the train of that shame back to its birth and came to some startling realisations. 

Certain moments in his life were book marked in his memories by their special nature.  Some were personal, some were connected to his work as a Jedi.  Many were of times with Qui-Gon.  He clearly remembered Qui-Gon’s words to him from the day he’d asked Obi-Wan to be his Padawan.  He’d been speaking of Xanatos, of how it wasn’t Xanatos he’d fought  but the Darkness in him.  He’d also said that Obi-Wan had shown him how Light must always overcome the Dark. 

Xanatos had been the first true failure in Qui-Gon’s life.  Not that Qui-Gon had failed, for the weakness had been in Xanatos, not in his teacher.  Somehow Obi-Wan had sensed that Qui-Gon had carried that buried guilt for many years.  Still, he had never let it cripple him.  He’d learned from it, hadn’t allowed the memories to turn into some sort of final victory for his enemy.  

Obi-Wan carried his own burden.  He’d killed the Sith but not soon enough to save Qui-Gon – and the method of it had tainted him, with grief and with the Darkness he’d drawn on. 

_To be at peace with myself, I must let that pain go.  To be one with the Light, I must forsake the Dark.  There is no middle way._

He accepted that loss, accepted his mortality, his humanity, his weakness.  He had buried his sense of guilt under thin layers of acceptance but it hadn’t gone away.  It lay there in the shadow of the memory of that dark power he called on to kill the Sith.  They were all tied up together, the Darkness and the guilt.  It was that small, shadowed part of his soul that had made him susceptible to Morte.  

_It is Qui-Gon you loved, Qui-Gon you still love.  Morte is not that man and never will be.  Wishing it were so will not make it so._

Honesty compelled him to acknowledge that though he knew the truth of the matter, there was yet some undeniable attraction.  Still, he understood himself a little better and the understanding allowed him to find some peace.  He waited, more focused than he had been in days, a little more centred within the Force.  The door finally opened, spilling white light across the floor to momentarily blind him.  He shaded his eyes and blinked at the figure silhouetted in the bright patch of light. 

“We need to talk.” 

Obi-Wan stood, straightening his robes and brushing the hair back from his face. “Yes, I suppose we do.”  He moved forward and Morte stepped backwards in the hallway until they were both outside the room.  Obi-Wan hesitated, then sucked in a deep breath, blew it out and looked up into those perilous, familiar eyes.  

The Sith blinked and Obi-Wan sensed a flash of pain, quickly suppressed.  “Ah.  I see.  You’ve reached your decision already, then.”  One hand twitched, raised half-way, then dropped.  “Would it make you change your mind to know that my Master seems to have developed an intense interest in your Padawan?” 

Obi-Wan froze in mid-movement.  “Anakin! What, how – explain!” 

Morte turned and began to walk down the empty hallway and Obi-Wan was forced to follow him.  “I asked you a question!” 

Morte swung about, features cold and unfamiliar, pure Sith.  “You are not the Master here, you would do well to remember that.”  He hesitated and the tight mouth relaxed into a small, crooked smile.  “My Master, my creator is Darth Sideous.  Although to you he is known as – Supreme Chancellor, soon to be Emperor, Palpatine.” 

Shocked to his heart, Obi-Wan stumbled. “Palpatine!  Impossible!” 

“Yes, exactly.  No-one suspects the spider at the centre of the web.  In a very short time he will control everything, and then the days of the Jedi are numbered.  Not just on this world, but everywhere.” 

“But . . .how!”  His own failings were momentarily eclipsed by notion that a Sith Lord had manoeuvred his way to the heart of the Republic for decades, worked with and among the most powerful of the Jedi, hidden in plain sight.  “He has worked for justice within the Republic for as long as I can remember!” 

“Yes, and generated so much of the trouble he has helped quell.  And did you think no Jedi ever suspected?”  Morte smiled as he stood, hands clasped behind his back in a sadly familiar manner.  “Some did, some even found proof.  All died.  Sad accidents, illnesses, spaceships blowing up.  Master Yarael Poof from the Council was about to reveal the truth to the other Council members when he had that terrible fall at his quarters that broke his very long neck.  The clever ones died.  The rest continue on in splendidly blind naivety.” 

“How do you know that?”  He was almost afraid of the answer. 

“Why?  Because, Jedi, I killed many of them.  Mine was the last face they saw and some of them even recognised it.  I honed my skills killing Jedi.  It’s what I do.” 

It pained him to know that Morte was so good as what he did because of Qui-Gon’s genetic inheritance.  His intensity, his focus, his utter confidence.  

 “Damn him!  Damn him to all Sith hells!”  Obi-Wan slammed his fist into the wall, managing to surprise even Morte by his savagery.  “He had no right!”  He wanted to shout his rage, felt the Dark swirl around him, urging him to act.  “I must  .  .  . must warn the Council.” 

“And certainly they will believe you.  You – a Jedi  who has attacked your own Padawan, has lain with a Sith, whose mind and soul are tainted by the Dark -  will tell them that the most respected figure in the Republic is a Sith!  Just who, my Obi-Wan, will they believe?” 

Obi-Wan swallowed his anger, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  “I hate it when you’re right.  I’m almost afraid to ask but – what do you suggest?  I assume you had a motive for telling me this.” 

Looking like man who wanted to pace but didn’t, Morte nodded slowly.  “Yes, a motive.  Survival.  There is a very good reason why there are only ever two Sith at a time.  The Dark feeds on dark emotion, including envy and jealousy.  It’s a good breeding ground for destructive desires.  If Sideous were to keep both Anakin and myself we would undoubtedly end up trying to kill each other.”  Morte almost grinned.  “I feel like killing him right now.”  He grew serious again, eyes narrowed.  “I understand it, but that doesn’t abrogate my desire to live.  As soon as Sideous accepts him as apprentice, I’m doomed.” 

“You’re assuming Anakin will turn.  I know he is strong-willed and impulsive, but he’s a basically decent young man.” 

“He has vulnerabilities or my Master wouldn’t be approaching him.  He’s taking considerable risk to do it, he rarely reveals anything of his nature to anyone but me in his guise as Palpatine.  If you – we – wait long, it will be too late.” 

Obi-Wan pulled himself upright and began to walk.  “Enough talk.  Nothing will be gained by this.  I will face Anakin, apologise for my treatment of him and do what I can to destroy this Sideous, irregardless of what mask he hides behind.  It is my duty as Jedi and Master.”    He paused, looked over at Morte. “Unless you plan to stop me.  You’ll need to kill me to do that.” 

“On the contrary,” Morte said with a smile as he moved to walk with him, “I have every intention of helping you.  In this, Jedi and Sith are of one mind.  Sideous must die.  Then, you will only have one Sith to deal with – me.” 

There was so much to consider, so much to balance that he needed a moment to prioritise.   First, find Anakin.  Then Sideous.  What followed, would follow. 

Time had passed, the day was half-gone by the time Obi-Wan and Morte arrived above ground.  Some careful investigation, as well as Obi-Wan’s own fragile link with Anakin, confirmed the worst.  Both Anakin and Palpatine were gone – they had boarded the Chancellor’s ship a short time before,  and their registered flight plan was a direct trip to Coruscant. 

If he was to reach Anakin before the Sith turned him, if he was to face whatever fate his actions had decreed, he would need to return to Coruscant.  The small transport that he and Anakin had arrived in was fuelled and ready to go.  Before anyone could gainsay them the two men boarded it, ignored requests for information from Theed Control, and lifted away from the planet. 

Then they were heading into Jump space back to Coruscant.

  

It was a small transport, larger than a short-hop courier, but not that much bigger, built for economy and speed.  There was one cabin with two fold down beds, a few basic conveniences, the food was self-heating packs or concentrates and there was nowhere they could go to avoid each other.  Morte found himself growing more and more accustomed to being in the Jedi’s presence, found an odd familiarity to his aura, to that sense of presence transmitted along the link that he himself had forged.  

He found he was starting to understand the older man and even perhaps to appreciate him.  He didn’t want to, that was treacherous ground to walk on.  _Yes, get close to him, get to know him and if it comes time to kill him, feel his death, feel his pain.  See, not only Jedi are foolish!_

Force, but it was hard to stay disconnected as he always had!  Sometimes a stray word would light that unexpected passion in his heart.  Not simply a physical need, but something that wanted to simply be touched.  Something that wanted a friend. 

On the third day of their passage he had curled himself into the co-pilot seat and watched the Jedi work through an exercise program in the small open area behind the cockpit.  He didn’t have a lot of room so he’d had to restrict his movements – no jumps or wide kicks, more a warm up kata than anything.  He’d stripped down to leggings and boots and his skin gleamed gold and cream under the lights, but he was totally unconcerned with that.  He was, in that moment, the quintessential Jedi. 

There had never been time or opportunity to just watch a Jedi work.  He’d tracked them, studied them, killed them.  This one fascinated him.  Complex, damaged, vulnerable – all of those things.  Yet a great warrior too, with a bright and quick mind.  _I could hardly love a fool._

He blinked, straightened.  Where had that thought come from?  Love?  Who made any mention of love?  How his Master would have sneered at that. . .He relaxed, suddenly, a small, dark pain shooting into his heart.  His Master had forgotten him, doubtless, in the rush of the challenge of a new Apprentice.  _Well, perhaps I can make him remember me again…_

When Obi-Wan paused to rest and wipe the sweat from his face and neck, Morte slipped out of his seat, pulled off his tunics, tossed them into the chair and moved down behind Obi-Wan to begin his own warm-ups.  He immersed himself in the familiar rhythms, found his centre in the Force and let himself swim in it, calling more and more Darkness to him as he swung and pivoted, balanced as always between pain and pleasure – 

He sensed the concentration of Light beyond the edges of his movements, a bright but wavering flame that seemed linked to him by filaments of need, tinged with dark concerns.  He flicked at the Light as he spun, tantalised it, laughed at its uncertain flame, reached for it even as he knew it would burn him.  Then, by some impossible merging they were joined, his Dark and that Light, spinning round each other like Matter and Anti-Matter, doomed to annihilate each other if they touched, but drawn by their nature to meet and meld. 

Hands linked with his, spun him around and he was brought up hard against a cold wall, gasping, eyes clearing to find himself looking down into bright, hot blue.  It had been too much to ask, that they dance this way around each other and not touch.  He stood, heart thudding, chest rising and falling with each deep breath as callused hands worked up his arms, touching him with respectful care.  They were killing machines, both of them, separated from violence by the thinnest barrier of their mutual need.  But oh, how close to passion was that violence.  How very close. 

One of those capable hands touched his shoulder and he held himself still, forced himself to trust as it rose past his throat, over sensitive places and up to his chin.  The fingers touched the thickening beard and he saw Obi-Wan’s mouth open, heard him whisper something unintelligible.  Beyond thought, ignoring the warnings bubbling in his brain, Morte twisted his head and pressed his lips to the warm palm.  Kissed the hand that touched him. 

Annihilation.  Light and Dark flashed behind his eyes, sparked along his nerve ends as the hot body pressed closer to him, slowly, gradually working its way into his personal space, so close that the hairs on his body stood on end.  The other hand moved around his waist and then they were locked together and he was kissing and being kissed as he tossed reason aside, along with all the cautions of his short, violent life.  Passion exploded between them like a living flame. 

Though he was as lost to that desire as Obi-Wan, the Sith noted the Jedi’s gentleness, how he seemed as hungry for the kisses and closeness as he was for the joining.  Morte consumed all as he pulled their clothing away and took the Jedi on the floor.  He covered Obi-Wan with his mouth and hands, pushed the strong legs up to the sweat-drenched chest and thrust inside in the way that he knew they both needed.  They bruised each other, he knew he hurt the Jedi, made him cry out in pain as much as pleasure but there was no holding back in that joining. 

Then they were both consumed by it, panting and shuddering as they clung together.  Power swirled in the air around them and dusted their skins with electricity.  Neither light nor dark, they lay in a twilight aftermath. 

They had been close, very close, to some improbable melding.  Yet one final part of each had refused to surrender.   Obi-Wan would not accept a deeper intimacy no matter how Morte pushed, no matter how pleasure overwhelmed him in the final screaming climax.  His shields held, he was still alone inside his mind, in that deep place where the memory of his dead Master dwelled.  As Morte protected the place that Sideous had claimed, to be renounced in his own time.  Joined and apart, they rested and wondered at what they were becoming. 

 

They landed half a world away from the Jedi Temple, on a tall tower among a hundred other similar buildings.  The little ship was streamlined so that it handled as well in atmosphere as space and they could have taken it directly down on to the Temple landing pad.    That was an idea dangerous beyond words.  

Obi-Wan watched Morte handle the ship’s landing with well-trained precision. “I have friends at the Temple.  I’m sure they would have –“ 

“- taken you straight to Yoda or some other powerful Jedi and we’d both be dead or imprisoned. “ 

“Jedi fight only in defense.  No-one would have attacked us.” 

His only response was a disbelieving snort.  Once he would have known how to answer, now he wasn’t so sure.  Too many of his beliefs had been shaken and his own personal insecurities only added to that.  

I’ve drifted away from the true course, he thought as the ship bumped slightly on touchdown.  I’m no longer truly Jedi.  But what am I? 

“For one thing,” Morte said, picking up on his thoughts with alarming ease, “you’re a man who looks like a Jedi. We have to do something about that.”  After finishing the engine shutdowns, Morte swivelled in the seat and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest.  “We need to get you some new clothes.” 

Obi-Wan looked at the stranger in the mirror.  Except for formal occasions or the infrequent times when he’d gone in disguise on a mission, he’d rarely dressed in anything but his Jedi robes .  This person wasn’t him. 

He smoothed his hands over the warm dark brown suede stretched across his thighs and tugged the belt up from his hips.  A pair of hands came from behind him and tugged it back down. 

“Its supposed to ride low.  You’re a downcity dweller.  This is the fashion.  Suede, white linen shirt open at the front, black vest and knee-high boots.  You look good enough to eat.”  The hands rose and began twisting silver clips into his hair so that finally when he moved his head, half a dozen slender braids jangled together.  He felt vaguely primitive. 

With as unprejudiced an eye as possible, he studied himself, head to one side.  Here was a man of thirty-five, still in his prime.  Slender waisted, with a broad chest and good solid musculature in arms and thighs.  The no-nonsense body of a warrior.  Since they’d left Naboo he’d let some of his facial hair grow and only trimmed it back to a neat goatee beard and moustache that he touched with a tentative finger.  Sarane…he’d taken to thinking of him as Sarane…had also let his facial hair grow and with his own hair pulled back, looked even more like Qui-Gon.  Images upon images, like shadows pulling him into the Darkness. 

His eyes were still bright, the skin still taught – not ugly to look upon, he thought, but the strain of the last few days showed in the faint shadows under his eyes and the downward turn of the mouth.  He tried smiling.  It wasn’t very successful. 

“Hells, don’t do that, you look ill.”  

He turned as Sarane made the last adjustments to his hair.  “Don’t do what?” 

“Smile.  It was like some sort of post-death rictus.”  The blue eyes looked down at him with a curiosity that radiated through the bond whose existence they both tried to deny.  “I gather you’re feeling doubts.  If it’s all too hard we can just pack up the ship and head off to some far away edge-of-nowhere planet and make some sort of life.  We might even live long enough for me to see you really smile.” 

Obi-Wan stepped back to gain some physical distance.  Close up, Sarane was just too disruptive.  “Running never solved anything.  It certainly won’t help Anakin.  Any mistakes I may have made do not abrogate my responsibilities as a Jedi…” 

“Oh please!”  Sarane turned to the mirror and straightened his own dark clothing, his face pinched and set. “Do not start on the Responsibilities of a Jedi List.  Or I may counter with my own duties as a Sith.  Which include killing or turning any Jedi I meet.  I let that one die quietly some time ago, in case you hadn’t noticed.” 

“I noticed.”  He found himself held in place, unable to move as Sarane turned back to him.  “I just wish I knew why.  Oh yes, I know you feel obliged to punish your Master for his betrayal – which may or may not be a betrayal – but that doesn’t quite fit.  You could arrange Anakin’s death.  As you just pointed out, that is a Sith’s work.  Then your Master would return his interests to you.  Or is there more?”  He stepped forward, very close to the tall, rigidly-controlled figure.  “Is there more, Sarane?” 

“Don’t call me that!”  Long fingered hands, killer’s hands, came up and grasped his shoulder, squeezed hard.  “My name is..” 

“What!  Morte?  What is your name?”  His voice had softened and it seemed to have an extraordinary effect on the Sith.  “Who are you?  What are you now?” 

The hands quivered and then he was being pulled forward and that tantalising wide mouth was covering his.  The tall, strong body was pressed against him, thigh to chest and arms like steel bands wrapped around him.  It was dangerous.  

It was wonderful. 

He didn’t fight it.  To pull away would have required both an act of will and a physical strength he couldn’t summon.  He swam in a misty rush of sensation, his own lust and the dark-tinged need coming from the man holding him.  They were both aroused, both hot and hard.  Hands slid down to squeeze his ass as he pushed his fingers through the thick, warm hair and held Sarane’s head.  Obi-Wan writhed against Sarane, felt himself lifted and swung his legs up around the strong thighs.  He was so aroused he wasn’t sure what he was doing, other than being touched and held exactly as he needed to be right then. 

“I want you, damned fool that I am,” Sarane whispered against the damp skin of Obi-Wan’s face.  “I want this inside me.”  His hand moved around to stroke Obi-Wan’s cock.  “My Jedi Master.” 

Obi-Wan blinked, looked up at the flushed, damp face.  “Are you..?” 

“Yes.  I’m sure.  We are together in this mad scheme of ours.  We must be so as equals.  And besides…”  He smiled, the first natural smile Obi-Wan had seen, an achingly familiar crooked twist of the lips.  “…I rather like the idea!” 

Obi-Wan nodded, ran one hand over Sarane’s face with a feather-soft touch.  There was still that same proud, angry strength held in leash, dangerous and unpredictable.  Qui-Gon’s flesh but Sarane’s heart.  Fascinating, irresistible and both of them his for the tasting. 

“I am not him,” Sarane said in that familiar velvet voice.  “I am not him.” 

“Yes you are,” Obi-Wan said, pressing his mouth against the beautiful eyes.  “All that is best of him, all that is worst of him.  His temper, his unpredictability, his arrogance.  His strength and courage and generosity.  All of him.” 

“No,” the Sith whispered as he backed across the room with Obi-Wan wrapped around him.  “No, I am me.  I am not the man you knew. “  He fell backwards onto the bed and Obi-Wan rolled over him and pulled the shirt away from Sarane’s body. 

“Whoever you are, I want you.”  Obi-Wan ran one hand over the solid chest, his fingers pinching the nipples until Sarane arched upwards at the exquisite short flash of sensation halfway between pleasure and pain.  Unable to resist, Obi-Wan bent forward and took one hard bud into his mouth.  He sucked and licked it, running his tongue over and around it, gathering it up with his teeth until Sarane groaned and grabbed his head.  He smiled and moved his mouth lower, parting and pushing away clothing, mouthing the naval and swirling his tongue through the warm, musky hair of Sarane’s groin. 

The memory of being pierced by that solid cock incited him to slide his face further into Sarane’s groin.  He’d never known such total abandon, his own lack of inhibition was momentarily diverting.  Then he sensed the erotic pleasure of his partner as he rubbed his mouth and face through the wiry hair and dismissed that other staid, responsible Obi-Wan.  This Obi-Wan wanted to lick every inch of the body beneath him, take in every flavour from all the small places, experience every part of this man. 

He licked the ball sacks, wrapped his mouth around one and suckled on it gently.  Hands gripped his hair and Sarane shivered as he blew a breath of warm air across the rigid penis.  The small urgent tugs on his hair moved him up and it was a simple thing to open his mouth and take the warm cock in. 

Images of Qui-Gon flashed through his mind as he worked the tender flesh.  His Master teaching him the finer points of the lightsaber,  explaining the nuances of various diplomatic missions, fighting alongside him in a score of battles, defending and protecting him.  Cherishing him.  Though they had never touched so intimately, they had shared so much and Obi-Wan had known how Qui-Gon had cared for him.  The last touch, the last look, had been filled with that love.  

_I never had the chance to tell him that I loved him.  Part of him lives on in this man, this wonderful duplication of opportunity.  He can be everything that my Master was and more.  I can love him as I never could Qui-Gon._ If it was a cheat, then so be it.  The Force had given him this gift, this one last chance.  He could not reject it. 

Sarane bucked beneath him and cried out as he came and Obi-Wan pulled back, collecting the warm semen in his hand.  As Sarane went limp, Obi-Wan lifted the long legs over his shoulder and worked his semen-slick fingers through the puckered muscle ring.  He released his own cock and slicked the remaining semen over it before thrusting forward to sheathe himself Sarane’s ass. 

Even as he plunged inside he leant forward, gripped Sarane’s arms and released his hard-held shields.  His mind reached out and brushed through the feeble shielding to touch the bright centre of his lover’s spirit.  It was buried there, beneath the Darkness, a Darkness he was beginning to understand too well.  He accepted it, took the anger and the pain, the disillusionment and the fierce, cold need and made it his own.  Bound by Light and Darkness, they forged a union of mind and spirit.  Obi-Wan cried out in a climax both physical and psychic.  In that moment he was both Jedi and Sith, Light and Dark. 

“Do you understand now?” Sarane asked, his voice a breathy quiver.  “The Dark?  Do you understand?” 

As he lay in heart-pounding aftermath, Obi-Wan couldn’t speak.  If he had, he would have acknowledged something no Jedi could – that he had savoured the Darkness and found it to his taste.

 


	5. Chapter 5

The old Jedi Master hawked and spat into a flower box.  Three initiates standing near him gaped in shock and the nearest looked away in flushed embarrassment.  A moment later he froze at the feel of a sharp blade pressed to his throat. 

“Boy, you’re dead.  Do you know why?” 

The boy looked up carefully into the wrinkled, intent face.  “Sir?” 

“Because you let yourself get distracted by this disgusting old man’s filthy habits.  You do that out on the rim somewhere and you’ll likely end up in an alley face down with a knife in your back?  Get me?” 

The flush faded to a look of intent interest as the knife disappeared back inside the tattered sleeve. “Yes sir, I get you.  Thank you.” 

“Good.  That’s the end of the class for today.  Meet me on Lower Level 15 same time next week, I show you a few fighting techniques they didn’t show you in Weaponless Combat.”  He waved the youngsters away and turned to leave, was interrupted by a soft word spoken from behind the planter. 

“You almost got me with that shot, Jayke.” 

The old man froze, his arrows narrowing.  “Obi?  Boy, half the Temple is after you, the rest want whatever the first half brings back.  What kind of bloody stupid mess have you got yourself into?” 

“I’ll explain, but not here.  Can you help me?   Might be trouble in it for you.” 

The old man grinned and stroked a tattered silver grey beard. “I’ve not seen the Council so stirred up since the day someone put glue on Yoda’s seat.  I want to hear first hand what’s happening.  Get to my quarters, that’s the safest bet.” 

As the old Master strode away, Sarane turned to Obi-Wan in the pool of shadow they were hiding in behind the planter box.  “That’s a very strange Jedi Master.” 

“Yes, Master Jayke was a friend of Qui-Gon’s and he helped me a lot after Qui-Gon’s death.  He spent most of his career out on the rim in some pretty rough places.  No-one knows the back ways of doing anything better than Jayke.  And I think we may need some out-of-the-ordinary assistance.” 

As the corridors quietened towards day’s end, the two made their way to Jayke’s rooms, using Force misdirection to hide from anyone they met along the way.  The old man hated being housed with the other Jedi – years of living alone had accustomed him to his privacy – and he’d found himself a cosy set of quarters at the end of a block of storage rooms.  Few people went into the area and he’d turned it into a sort of nest.  

Sarane had been extremely loathe to go anywhere near the Jedi Temple but Obi-Wan had persuaded him.  They had to know what was happening and there was no way to do that from a distance.  They had slipped in through back ways and infrequently used service entries and Obi-Wan had tapped into the Temple teaching schedule to track Jayke.  Then it had been a matter of waiting in hiding along his planned training route. 

Sarane stopped inside the door and squinted; the light was low and the room filled with strange shapes.  Bookshelves bearing real books, boxes piled everywhere, rugs and knickknacks, a lifetime of odd collectibles were scattered and tumbled everywhere.  It was a comfortable scene of chaos. 

He was about to move forward when a figure practically materialised behind him and that same knife was pressed to his throat – only this time it pierced the skin. 

“Careful,” Sarane said in a calm voice, motionless. “You might cut me.” 

“I can smell Darkness a parsec off, boy.  You stink of it.” 

Obi-Wan stepped into the light.  “Don’t hurt him, Jayke.  Look at him.  Just look at him.” 

The old man moved around to the side carefully, edged Sarane forward and studied his profile.  His eyes widened and the knife quivered. 

“What – what sort of thing are you, to have the face of a dead man?" 

Faster than thought, Sarane’s hand moved up and grabbed the blade.  He wrapped his fingers around it and pushed it away even though the sharp metal cut into his fingers.  Blood worked out along the blade as he moved it back. 

“As you said, old man, I’m Darkness.” 

They stood there, all three of them, caught in a deadlock trembling on the edge of violence.  Finally, Sarane released the blade and lowered his hand.  

“But if you feel you need to kill me, well, here is as good a place as any.  There would even be a certain justice in it, considered how many Jedi I’ve killed.” 

The knife shook and Obi-Wan reached out to touch Jayke’s arm.  “Please let me explain, Jayke.” 

“Yes.”  He turned away from Sarane, flipped the knife over and buried it tip first into the wooden target on the wall.  “I’d like to hear that explanation, boy.” 

Obi-Wan tried to take Sarane’s hand to inspect the cut but it was pulled away.  “It’s nothing, I’ve had worse in workouts.  Shall we get on with your explanation?” 

Jayke listened without comment to Obi-Wan’s tale, and slowly shook his head. 

“That is the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard.  Not that I don’t believe young Anakin isn’t capable of anything.  I’ve had my doubts about the boy being sound of wind.  Palpatine, aye?  Greasy little toad, that don’t surprise me at all.” He suddenly grinned, showing surprisingly white teeth.  “Though I’ve got to give the man points, he’s kept the lot of us in the dark about him for years.  That’s a mighty useful talent.  So the Sith are on the move again.”  He looked at Sarane at last and frowned.  “Qui wouldn’t have liked it, any blood child of his being Dark-led.” 

“I am not his child, I am his clone.   I am not his copy, his duplicate, his replacement or his ghost – I am myself.   All my life I have been Sith, it is all I know.  I trusted my Master and he is betraying that trust.  Whatever I am, whoever I am, I find that insupportable.”  His voice was tight with unreleased tension, stiff in his throat.  “I will not beg you or anyone for help.  I came at the Jedi’s request.  I can just as easily leave.” 

The old Master put up a hand.  “Alright, I never said you were.  Though you’ve got his pride, that I can see.  Well, I’ve spent my life fighting for the Light, thought I’d go to the flame never having seen a Sith.  Now it looks like I get to see two.  So, Obi-Wan, what did you have in mind?” 

In a sense of strange accord, a Jedi Master, a Jedi caught half between Light and Dark, and a Sith, began to plan the downfall of a Sith Lord. 

 

 

Jayke had managed to find a relatively clean set of tunics and robe at the bottom of his closet.  They smelled a little musty from storage and were a tight around the upper arms, but at least he looked more like someone who belonged in the rarefied upper levels of the Jedi Temple. 

He had to keep telling himself, as he walked the wide, clean corridors, that he did have the right to be there.  He was, after all, a Jedi Master.  It just wasn’t a mindset that spending thirty years in the outer rim had created in him.  He preferred times spent in grimy taverns chatting with mercenaries and space pilots for hire to conversing with Jedi Council members.  He suspected they looked down on him a little.  He didn’t care for that suspicion and wondered if it were true. 

He needed to talk to Yoda or Mace Windu, but the normal way of contacting them required him to go through various levels of bureaucracy  and there lay the greatest danger.  Obi-Wan’s fears for some sort of Sith influence in the Temple’s upper echelons might be simple paranoia, but Jayke respected the younger man’s instincts.  He had a way of seeing things, sensing things, and Jayke preferred to take no chance.  So he would have to find a back way in.  And he thought he had just that way. 

Whatever else Council Members might do that kept them apart from the rest of the Jedi, they shared one trait in common with their lesser brethren – they ate.  Jayke was on very good terms with the head of the Temple Commissary; they’d spent many an evening in one of the big Temple kitchens dining out on alien delicacies and swapping tales over a few bottles of fine Chiganti.  Raymon owed him a favour or two and he planned on collecting. 

The big man was organising the main day’s meal for the Initiates Hall when Jayke arrived.  

“Master Jayke!  I can’t stop to chat now, busy time for me.” 

“I know that Raymon.  I need to ask you something.  Just give me a few minutes.” 

He explained his needs to the Controller, who frowned.  “Master Windu isn’t here, he’s offworld somewhere.  Ki-Adi Mundi is still waiting for a requested meal, I suppose you could . . .but that’s very odd, Jayke.  Why would you want to do that?  Why not just call him up and arrange an appointment?” 

“You can’t just call up a Council Member and ask to pop in for a glass of wine.  I need to get to him sort of on the sly.  Don’t worry, its nothing you can get into trouble for.”  Jayke grinned, and patted the man’s arm.  “I’ll say I used a mind whammy on you.” 

A short time later a servant, bearing a cloth-covered tray, approached the private quarters of Ki-Adi Mundi, the only Council Member not a Master.  The security cam accepted his code for meal delivery and let him enter.  The servant stopped inside, placed the tray on a side table and walked into the Jedi’s private study.  The tall Jedi was studying a datapad at his desk and didn’t look up. 

“Just put it on my desk if you would . . .” 

“We need to talk.” 

Ki-Adi looked up, surprised, then frowned as he placed the datapad carefully on the desk.  “Who are you?  How did you get in here?” 

“My name is Jayke Ekole, I’m a Master and I need to talk to you about Obi-Wan Kenobi.” 

 

Sarane walked back and forth across the small, cramped living room like a caged beast.  Obi-Wan, curled up in Jayke’s old armchair, watched him for a time before speaking in a weary voice. 

“You’re making me tired watching you.  It does no good to pace, you know.  These things take time.” 

Sarane looked at him, expressionless, as he turned at the end of his repetitive pacing.  “You’ll have to excuse me for my lack of faith.  I’m not really accustomed to putting my fate into the hands of a Jedi.  It isn’t a matter of trust, before you say anything.  It’s a matter of habit and training.  Sith don’t generally trust Jedi, its rather outside the job specifications.” 

Obi-Wan had to smile – Sarane’s voice was rich with a very human sarcasm.  It was very similar to the way Qui-Gon used to respond to bureaucrats who’d annoyed him and covered a host of concerns.  “If you’ll forgive me for saying what you don’t wish to hear, I trust Jayke with my life.” 

“Yes, but you’re trusting him with mine, too.  That makes me just a little . .” 

At that moment the door slid open, spilling white light across the dimly lit room and both men turned, and froze.  Four figures moved inside.  They were Jedi, three unfamiliar human males and one familiar figure in the shape of Ki-Adi Mundi.  They were all carrying lightsabers. 

Sarane pulled back, grabbing for his own ‘saber, his voice a hiss of anger.  “I hate it when I’m right!” 

The air rang with the tension of violence about to erupt.  Obi-Wan jumped up and moved in front of Sarane, his hands out.  “Stop!” 

Sarane tried to move him aside.  “Get out of the way, you’ll get yourself killed!” 

He didn’t budge, stood with one hand raised, stared across the small space at Mundi.    “Sir, please.  Let me explain.” 

“I’ve already spoken to Master Ekole.  He,” he said, pointing his inactivated lightsaber at Sarane, “will come with us for interrogation.  You, Knight Kenobi, will report to the Council to explain your behaviour.” 

Obi-Wan flinched as the red blade hummed to life behind him.  He kept his face on the older Jedi, striving for calm.  “Did you understand anything that Master Jayke told you?  It has become easier for me to persuade a Sith to come to you than to persuade the Jedi to believe in me, in one of their own.  Is that what the Jedi have become – closed, intractable?” 

Uncertainty sang in the Force, and all balance was lost.  It would have been easy to let go of the hope and simply let that Dark anger inside him take over, join with Sarane in a great killing that would achieve nothing beyond survival.  And temporary survival at that.  There was more at stake and he had to stay – calm. 

Mundi had been a warrior for the Light, very much as Qui-Gon had been and he knew that his only chance was to reach that sense of honour.  He looked into the watchful, calm eyes and tried to project everything that he was. 

“I am a Jedi, ” he said quietly, hands hanging by his side.  “If necessary, I will die a Jedi.  I would rather live, for the sake of my Padawan and of the Order.  There is a great Darkness threatening us and I must survive to fight it.   Please don’t force me to chose.” 

The other Jedi stood very still, his lightsaber still unlit.  “You would kill me, then, to further to cause?” 

Obi-Wan nodded slowly, his center of calm restored.  “Yes, if necessary.  I ask you not to make me do that.” 

It was an odd challenge.  Mundi was years older than he, vastly more experienced and he had three full Knights with him.  Obi-Wan had only himself and Sarane.  Yet he sensed the flow of the future, that even with those odds he would likely win.  The Jedi might hold back – he and Sarane would not. 

“Two to one odds are not favourable,” Mundi said quietly, then started as a voice spoke behind him. 

“Four to three are a little better.” 

Jayke stood in the corridor, his ‘saber in his hand, the yellow beam humming.  Mundi half-turned, then looked sideways at Obi-Wan.  “You would raise your hand to me, Master Ekole?  You would help a Sith?” 

“Do what I must, Mundi.  The lad’s right, you need to listen.  If you can’t, we have to find someone who has a more open mind.” 

Threat crackled in the air for a few more moments – then Obi-Wan heard Sarane’s lightsaber deactivate and saw movement behind him.  Sarane stepped forward and tossed his weapon onto the empty armchair.  

“You want to kill me, Jedi, then do it.  If that is what it will take to prove Obi-Wan’s truth to you.  I’m tired of this.  If you can’t tell that Kenobi is as true and straight as the damned Force itself then there is no hope for any of us.” 

Obi-Wan watched Mundi look into features that had to be so familiar to him.  Standing straight and tall and unwavering, Sarane had never looked more like Qui-Gon.  Ready to take on everyone to make his point.  He saw Mundi smile – it was very slight, just a tilt of the lips, but the tension suddenly eased. 

“That is very dramatic, young man.  You do take after your progenitor, he also had a flair for the dramatic.  Very well, we will talk.”  He turned to the Jedi behind him, spoke softly.  After a moment’s hesitation they turned and left and he was alone.  It was as much a statement of courage and trust as any words for he was alone then, in the midst of potential threat.  He walked forward, stepped around Sarane, lifted the lightsaber from the armchair and sat, settling the weapon on his lap. 

Obi-Wan stood next to Sarane and told the story, every detail, even though he skimmed over his relationship with Sarane.  When he had finished Mundi sat staring into nothing for a time, then looked up and focused on Obi-Wan’s face. 

“Palpatine is a Sith Lord.”  He considered it and slowly shook his head.  “Extraordinary.  Even Yoda doesn’t know.  Such power he must have, to so delude us all.” 

Obi-Wan sensed the sudden ease of tension in the young body beside him.  “You believe us?” Sarane asked quietly, and Mundi nodded. 

“It rings true, I must admit.  Such a story would fall apart under its own weight were it a lie.  Yet it isn’t a problem easily solved.  Do we just go to the Chancellor of the entire Republic and accuse him of being Sith?  Even were it so, what would be achieved?  Right and wrong aside, politics is never simply black and white.  He might acknowledge it privately but he would still be who and what he is.” 

Obi-Wan had never considered that.  It had seemed so simple – denounce him and then some sort of confrontation, rescue Anakin… 

“But what of Anakin,” he asked.  “He is in great danger.” 

“Yes, that is a concern we can address.  He has returned to Coruscant and Palpatine has requested Anakin be assigned to him as a liaison between him and the Jedi Council.  It was considered a good political move but now I see it is much more than that.”  He stood abruptly.  “I must see Yoda and report this.”  He moved towards the door, stopped next to Sarane and held out his hand.  “I believe this is yours.” 

Sarane looked across at the tall Jedi – they were of a similar height, Obi-Wan realised, for all the difference in age – and he carefully took the black ‘saber hilt from the Jedi’s hand. 

“Thank you.” 

Cool, calm, but without trace of anger.  Mundi gave a small nod. 

“It is not safe to stay here.  There are empty guest quarters on the fifteenth level, I suggest you go there and wait.  Stay in the Cerulean Suite, I will log you in as visiting diplomats, and will contact you there when I have news.” 

 

They found their new quarters, luxurious empty rooms meant for off-planet guests.  Hours passed without any message from Mundi and the waiting, with nothing to do but worry, became harder.  Jayke went out to get food for them and returned a short time later, empty handed, with terrible news. 

Obi-Wan and Sarane were sitting in the big parlour reading when the older Master burst in. 

“Force damn it, what’s going on!  Mundi is dead!” 

Obi-Wan’s stomach plummeted. “What!  How?” 

“He was found dead in a corridor leading to Yoda’s rooms.  He’d been stabbed.”

 

Events crowded in on Sarane so that it seemed he barely had time to fear.  Within minutes of the old Jedi Master’s arrival they heard the sound of many feet, the unmistakeable arrival of the Jedi.  There was no longer any time to talk.  It was time to fight. 

The door blew open, the entry suddenly full of bodies and the hum of multi-coloured lightsabers.  Luckily they had come in such numbers that they cruelled their own attack, blocking the door way in their apparent eagerness to destroy the Sith.  He watched Obi-Wan fight, recognised he was being entirely defensive, holding them off but not striking for the kill. 

In spite of every dark instinct that was telling him that here was the enemy, here were things to be killed, still he followed suit.  He cut and parried, pushed them back through the door, kicked the legs out from under them, backhanded them into walls.  Though he almost died many times, he did not kill. 

He heard a familiar voice behind him.  “Over here!” 

A couch sailed through the air, knocking the foremost group of Jedi back out through the door.  Sarane turned and ran through the hole in the wall that Jayke had cut with his lightsaber.  Sarane grinned and slapped the old man on t he shoulder. 

“Smart Jedi!’  He ducked into the empty side corridor, saw that Obi-Wan was just behind him – and then Jayke staggered as a blaster shot caught him in the chest.  He sagged against the wall, blood running down his chin and Obi-Wan cried out, horrified. 

“NO!  Jayke!” 

The old man sank to the floor, lightsaber still gripped in his fist.  “Go!  Get – out.”  Even as he died, he waved blaster shots away.  “Save yourself – my boy. . .” 

Sarane grabbed hold of Obi-Wan and pulled him down the corridor.  Obi-Wan tried to pull away but Sarane held him in an unbreakable grip.  “He died to save you, don’t make it a waste.” 

“Jayke!”  Obi-Wan was shaking with grief and Sarane could sense it, a terrible ache that cut through his anger.  “He was. . .he was my friend.” 

“Yes.  Mourn later.  Right now we have to get out of here.” 

So they ran.  Along corridors, down elevators, through empty rooms, past staring, surprised strangers and always down, as if seeking refuge in the bowels of the world.  Finally, the last sound of pursuit was gone.  They found themselves in a great storage area, dimly lit, and Sarane looked about at the dusty crates and forgotten things.  

That’s us, Sarane thought, as he sagged down onto the floor with back against a crate, thrown away things, unwanted things.  Me by my Master who made me, Obi-Wan by the Jedi who raised him.  So much for doing the right thing. 

He watched Obi-Wan stand with his hand resting on a broken box, breathing in great heaving gasps.  The outward grief was gone but Sarane could sense it, still there.  Obi-Wan turned finally and sank down beside him and after a moment’s hesitation, Sarane wrapped an arm around him.  The older man turned to him, seeking comfort and he gave what he could with his arms and his touch. 

As he sat holding Obi-Wan, Sarane sensed a growing swell of power.  It rose like a wind, a dark familiar current that chilled him.  He stiffened and Obi-Wan looked up. 

“What?” 

“My Master . . .Sideous is coming.. .” 

 

Obi-Wan stood in a pool of light in the middle of the room, the perfect Jedi, serene and centred and Sarane was flooded with an almost overwhelming affection.  In that moment everything achieved balance.  There was no Dark, no Light.  There was just love.  The love he felt for this man transcended allegiances, was its own sort of faith.    He let warm his heart against the growing chill of his former Master’s presence. 

Sideous came into the room in a wave of living Darkness.  He paused at the edge of the open area and watched the two men who were watching him. 

“What have we here?  A fallen Jedi and a weakling Sith.  I had thought better of you, my apprentice.” 

“Master.”  He stepped forward and his lightsaber flared to ruby life.  “Former Master.  Is your new apprentice not with you?” 

“Ah.  I see.  You assume things, Morte.  That hoary old rule about there being only two.”  Pale hands waved a negative.  “I am Darth Sideous, I make rules, I do not bend to them.  If I wished to take another with me into the Dark, what is to say I cannot?  I am strong enough to control an Empire, I can certainly control two foolish young men.”   The hooded head turned minutely. “Or perhaps three, though you are not so young any more, are you, Obi-Wan?  Not as young as when my first apprentice slew your Master.” 

Sarane felt an odd twinge of pain, an echo of the sad memory from Obi-Wan.  Where it had come from he didn’t know, and he had no time to consider it.  He saw Obi-Wan’s hands flicker and a green blade joined his red one to light the room in discordant phospheresence. 

“As this blade destroyed your first apprentice, so it will you.  You may be the Sith Lord,” Obi-Wan said coolly, “but you are mortal, and can die.  Will die.” 

Sarane could sense Sideous’ pleasure.  “You will need to draw on much more power to destroy me than your simple Jedi warmth.  You will need to fan those flames of anger and fear that I sense in you, Obi-Wan.  Can you be one with the Dark, to destroy the Dark?  If you can, then you will deserve your victory.” 

He saw it, then, what Sideous was planning.  Turn Obi-Wan, rend the Light from him, destroy the heart of the man who had killed his first apprentice.  A far better vengeance than simply killing him.  Then toss him away for the Jedi to destroy what remained. 

It would be easy to trigger the Dark energies that had been his way since birth but something told him that fighting the Dark with the Dark would not do.  Sideous was more powerful in the Dark, that was undeniable.  There was only one way, and he took it. 

He cast out the Dark. 

It was not easily done, though it took surprisingly little time.  Something helped him, some unknown something he could barely understand. . .a touch, a voice, a half-remembered smile, the presence of a great and strengthening awareness.  He looked at Obi-Wan, felt the pure strength of the Light through the bond they had made, and opened himself to it.  He was prepared to die in the Light rather live in the Dark.  It was that final acceptance that gave him the strength to reject it. 

There was no great flood of it as he’d expected.  It just felt peaceful, like clean water when a man was thirsty or warm sun on the face.  Gentle, welcoming with open arms.  He smiled and saw the flash of yellow eyes bright with fury just as pale hands rose and power swelled around him. 

Obi-Wan leapt forward with a cry, his lightsaber flashing as he tried to stop the unstoppable.  The blue-white bolts of flame ignored his saber light and struck Sarane, pushed him back into and over the piles of crates.  Pain such as he’d never known tore into him, blinding him, stealing his breath, stealing his life  . . . 

He felt Obi-Wan’s desperate battle, saw him struggling to reach Sideous, held back by that tremendous strength, battling boxes and blocks sent hurtling through the air to smash into him.  Finding strength from somewhere he couldn’t define, Sarane stumbled forward into the flame. 

***S a r a n e*** 

-  the voice tapped at the back of his anguished mind - 

*** I am here, child, take my hand *** 

Strength came to him from somewhere and he knew, suddenly, what it was - - 

Qui-Gon.  One with the Force, the Light Side, the voice he’d heard faintly all his life.  Clear now, that he was out of the Dark.  One with him, father and brother, mirror-image.  He took hold of that insubstantial but limitless strength in the Force and pushed himself upright.  Barely able to see, holding off the pain by some impossible strength of will, he moved forward. 

One step.  Another.  Pushing against the tide of power, wreathed in agony, he felt his old Master’s surprise.  Impossibly, the anguish increased and he screamed – but he kept moving.  He sensed Sideous beginning to step back but it was too late.  He fell forward, hands guided to a soft throat and he squeezed . . . tightened his grip . . . 

The pain lessened at last as the concentration of power under his hands faded and flickered.  Eons later he fell.  

He floated, and there was no pain.  He could see, in some peculiar fashion.  Something formed before him – a tall figure in Jedi robes, hair glowing in a wreath of light about his head, eyes the colour of sky. . . 

***You did well, Sarane.  I am very proud of you*** 

He sensed grief from somewhere behind him.  ***Obi-Wan. . .*** 

***Yes.  He is holding you and crying, thinking that he is losing us both again.***  The bright eyes dimmed with sorrow.  ***It isn’t fair that my Padawan should know such grief twice.*** 

He was fading, he could sense it, unable to hold on any longer.  ***He needs you.  I cannot be what he wants me to be, I would always be a shadow of his greatest love *** 

***He loves you also.  But I cannot go to him.  It isn’t possible.*** 

Yes.  It was possible.  He reached out with the last faint tendril of power linking them together – him, Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon – and slipped from life as Qui-Gon touched his spirit – felt the awesome power of the Force guide his progenitor backwards to life . . 

Tell him I loved him.  Thank you for my life - -  - 

 

Breath.  Sound.  Sight.  Touch.  Taste.   

**The Force.**

He opened his eyes…..Sarane’s eyes….and saw.  Reality caressed him and he looked up through rapidly focusing vision into the tear-streaked face above him.  Watched the awe light up the beloved features as Obi-Wan sensed his presence. 

“He said – he loved you.” 

Obi-Wan flinched, eyes wide.  Qui-Gon lifted his hand and touched one damp cheek. 

“As do I.  My Obi-Wan.” 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Epilogue**

 

Obi-Wan stood at the edge of the garden, his robes and hair blowing around him in the morning wind.  He had stood there for some minutes watching the figure sitting on the grass.  He wondered again, as he had so often over the previous days, why he felt guilty.  He had what he’d always dreamed of – he had Qui-Gon back.  Back from the dead.  Such a miracle.  But such a cost. 

There hadn’t been a lot of time to consider the implications of Qui-Gon’s return.  Palpatine’s death had caused quite an uproar that even the revelation of him being a Sith hadn’t quelled.  Siths meant little to the Republican Senate.  Their Chancellor had been killed by Jedi, or so it seemed.  It was an incredible scandal. 

The Jedi, themselves, were experiencing something of an epiphany.  The will of the Force had been shown to them in a graphic manner.  A Sith had turned from the Dark and killed his Master, a Jedi had returned from the Force to life in the body of his clone.  These things had never happened before.  

The revelation of Palpatine’s true nature had other ramifications as well.  Anakin, once shown the nearness of his fall, had been shocked to his core.  He had begged forgiveness of Obi-Wan and Obi-Wan had given it, offering his apology as well.  His behaviour had started Anakin towards the dark and he felt some degree of responsibility.  He still felt that Anakin was a danger but with the Sith gone and after such a harsh lesson he was less likely to fall. 

They had also tracked the betrayer inside the Temple – one of Mundi’s own assistants, controlled by blackmail over some sordid information, had informed Palpatine of the meeting with Obi-Wan and Palpatine had sent a hired assassin after the Jedi.  The assistant confessed and revealed others inside the Temple, a thin trail corruption at the heart of the Jedi that was quickly scoured away. 

And Qui-Gon – he had sat patiently through the tests and the questions and the blatant curiosity.  That it was Qui-Gon was irrefutable;  any Jedi who knew his Force signature could read it at once. Now and then Obi-Wan would catch him studying himself in a mirror, looking at the fresh young features, touching the skin, trying perhaps to see how different he was from what he had been. 

They’d had little time to talk and when they had been together it was difficult to know what to say.  Then there was the guilt.  His and Qui-Gons – for he felt they both bore a burden of it.  Finally they had some time to themselves, to say the things they needed to say. 

Obi-Wan walked through the garden, saw that they were alone and went to sit on a bench next to Qui-Gon.  It was so strange to think of this young body housing his Master – their situations were reversed now, he was older, Qui-Gon younger.  It was so strange . . 

“Yes.  Strange.” 

Obi-Wan straightened and flushed at the uncanny way Qui-Gon had of picking up his thoughts. 

“I’m sorry.”  He opened his eyes and looked up at Obi-Wan.  “I can’t help it, we seem to be very closely linked.  I don’t believe I can stop, though you may be able to intensify your mental shielding to keep me out.” 

“I don’t want to keep you out.  I want to understand.  And I want. . .” 

“The pain to go away.  I do know.  If you believe that I would wish to live again at the cost of another man’s life, then you don’t know me as well as you thought.  I would gladly give Sarane back his life if I could.  But I cannot.  I am the inheritor of his body, but his spirit is with the Force.’  He studied the hands curled in his lap.  “Much of him is with me still.  I remember how it felt to love you.” 

Obi-Wan’s heart did a flip, thudding in his chest.  Qui-Gon looked up again, clear-eyed.  “I envy him that.  I never had the opportunity speak to you as he did, to hold you and touch you as he did.  Yet I cannot help wondering – did you feel for Sarane because of who he was, or who he looked like?  And is that very question the cause of this guilt you carry?” 

Obi-Wan stood again and began to pace.  It was indeed the crux of the matter.  “The answer to that is – I don’t know.  I thought I did. I thought it was just because of who he looked like.  That’s partly it.  But it was more – he was Sarane, a new person made from you, with the best and worst of you magnified by the way he was made.  I should have hated him for that, for being you when you were dead.  I tried to.  Perhaps I’m cursed to . . .to feel for you strongly in any incarnation.  I think, though, that I would have been touched by him even if you and I had never met.  He was special.” 

“Good.” 

He stopped, frowned.  “Good?” 

“Yes.”  Qui-Gon stood, graceful and elegant in his simple Jedi robes.  “I’m glad you liked him for himself and not just for the resemblance.  He deserved that much.”  

Sunlight pooled around them both, touching Qui-Gon’s hair in golden brown highlights.  He was so alive in that moment that Obi-Wan’s heart ached at the sight of him.  The pain was beginning to lift as he recognised its cause.  “It’s odd,” he said with a slight smile, “but I feel better knowing that I loved him.  Even if I don’t really understand it.” 

“Understand this, then,” Qui-Gon said as he stepped forward and opened his arms.  Obi-Wan stepped forward and was wrapped in the heat of Qui-Gon’s body.  And it was Qui-Gon’s body then, bequeathed to him by his true son.  He lifted his head and closed his eyes as a mouth touched him.  He was kissed with gentle reverence, for the first time, by the man he loved. 

 

 

_Then sounds the voice of One who like the heart of man_  
_was once a child who among beasts has lain –_  
_‘Still do I love, still shed my innocent light, my Blood, for thee’._

_From “Still Falls the Rain” by Edith Sitwell_


End file.
